24: Quest
by Math Girl
Summary: A situation close to home, plate techtonics and a bit of roleplaying lead to some unexpected developments. Set between Inception, Bad Day and Return. Finished, at very long last.
1. 1: RPG

Re-edited. It's just a little different.

**Quest**

**1: RPG**

_Earlier; a problem and a challenge-_

Finally, he'd gotten everyone together, or nearly so; Gordon was still on his way from Spain, but with hours of trans-oceanic flying to do, the swimmer had no quarrel with a little role-playing. Fermat, of course, was always willing, and John punctual, if unenthused. On the bright side, at least he was home from space, and 'Male Elf' could be written back into the story. Which was... y'know... kinda critical.

Alan started his game downstairs in one of Brains' less-gloomy assembly labs. The sunroom or library would have done as well and been easier to reach, but John didn't want to risk questions from Scott, Virgil or (worse yet) dad. John liked to role play. Alan knew he did because they'd bumped into each other online before in Halo 4-D and Final Fantasy XXV, where John's character usually said 'hello' by slaughtering Alan's poor, helpless, n00b. The heck with prisoners; take no _family_.

But, whatever his gaming philosophy, John didn't care to risk being laughed at, so Alan kept things quiet and under wraps. Anyways, they (mostly) got together in lab 4-B, at a work bench in mid-chamber. The floor and walls were reinforced concrete, the door was locked and most of the cameras were off, but Alan had hooked up a laptop for its comm feature. Fermat was seated across from him, leaning eagerly forward and practicing rolls with his lucky blue 12-sided dice. He loved this stuff, and was loading up on soda and chips for the strength to play hard.

Gordon was in the cockpit of his yellow turbo-prop airplane, listening in and sometimes commenting, though Alan had to roll for him. John was slouched at the table's far end, with his long legs straight out and crossed at the ankle, arms folded on his chest. He'd brought no dice of his own, intending (as usual) to borrow someone else's. You could hardly ever tell what John was thinking, which was probably a good thing.

"Let's make this quick," he said suddenly, glancing at Alan and then at the clock. "Grandma wants to go to confession tomorrow, and she's decided I'm piloting."

Alan snorted rudely.

"Okay, like… why bother?" he asked. "I mean, what's the point of going into a closet and telling some dude in a dress all your issues? Why not just save yourself the gas money and talk to your dog?"

John shrugged. Looking away again, he repeated…

"Grandma wants to go."

…but you never could get much out of him.

"Suit yourself," Alan quipped.

His stuff… the maps and special dice, the story sheets… were all laid out.

"We'll play short tonight, and then, if nothing comes up, meet again when you get back from 'confusion' tomorrow."

"I'm r- ready!" Fermat cut in, bouncing a little in his chair. "It's b- been… forever s- since we've played."

He was the youngest guy in the room, but _very_ smart; mondo talented, and junk. Throw John into the mix and the brain trust was, like, overwhelming. Luckily, Gordon was around to feel superior to, rebalancing things in Alan's favor. Over the comm, Gordon said,

_"I'm takin' it that I've recovered from my little set-to with th' trolls, then? And that Male Elf's finally dried out?"_

John actually smiled at that, looking over at his brother's image on the laptop screen.

"Not if I've still got money," he said, pushing some of the blond hair from his face.

Getting drunk was Male Elf's goal; staying that way, his life's ambition. Giving him crap about it was everyone else's. But, hey… what could you expect from a partly reformed dark elf?

"Okay," Alan announced, sitting up in his chair and ready to play. "Here's the scenario: Sir Gawain…" (That was Gordon) "…you're returning victorious from your battle with the rock trolls, when you stop for the night under an elm tree and…"

_"Lit a camp fire, have I?"_ Gordon cut in, being anxious about defense in dodgy territory.

"Uh… let me roll for it," Alan responded, giving the red die a toss. _Eleven._

"Yeah. You remembered. Plus, you've got enough firewood, and you picketed your horse for the night."

_"Set up the odd ward, or two?"_

Another quick roll.

"Yeah… but they're sorta weak. You were tired, or something."

Not far from the mark, as it happened. It had been a long month for everyone.

_"I'll gulp water by the tonne and sleep lightly," _the red-head decided, keeping a weather eye on his flight instruments. _"Between th' magical wards and St. George…"_ (His warhorse) _"…I'll not be caught unawares."_

His character was Sir Gawain, a young and impoverished knight. Seventh son of a seventh son, he owned little besides a good name, a fine horse, armor, a magical sword and the cherished favor of Lady Anelle. Like Gordon Tracy, the character had red hair and an imposingly muscular build. Unlike Gordon, he'd grown a long, drooping moustache.

"Yeah… so, you're sacked out under the elm tree with your shield for a pillow, dreaming of Lady Anelle, when, um…" (Dice roll and swift consult) "…an air sprite pops clean through those weak-butt wards and breathes in your face. You have… drum roll, please… a _vision."_

"Here we go again," John muttered, settling lower into his chair. "Bar the doors and windows, stock up on canned goods and potions."

"A _vision_," Alan interrupted loudly, "of this really sad fairy child. She's holding some gems… like diamonds, or something… and she whispers to you: _'Forge anew, good Sir Knight, for crown and kingdom, alike.'_ Then, she up and vanishes, and you wake."

_"Thinkin' dinner was a bit off,"_ said Gordon, throttling up to crest a cloud bank.

"Nuh-uh. You're smarter than that, see, and you remember that the land of Alasia…"

"H- How come all of… your l- lands and kingdoms always b- begin with the syllable 'Al'?" Fermat demanded, squinting at Alan through his glasses.

"'Cause I'm the dang dungeon master, that's why!" Alan told him.

There was no room in role-playing for dissent, okay?

"Anyways, Sir Gawain remembers that the kingdom of Alasia _used_ to have contact with the Fairy Realm. But 99 years ago, demonic treachery led to the death of the Fairy king, Oberon. What's even worse is, see, his wife died in childbirth the day before, plus the baby disappeared and the Fairy crown was _stolen."_

Here, Alan paused for effect, staring around at his audience. Fermat had totally bought in to the story and Gordon was interested, but John stared at the tabletop, frowning slightly.

"Pretty unreasonable run of bad luck, isn't it?" he commented.

"Dude… my game, my rules. Put up, or shut up."

Shrugging, John shut up, but not without getting in a last word.

"Whatever. Continue."

"Okay… so, like I was saying, the true heir is missing and the crown that proves his or her right to the throne is lost. 99 years have gone by, and in one more, it'll be 100. Alasia's link to the Fairy Realm will be lost, and the demons will rush up from their dark mirror kingdom, below. Chaos, death, destruction, no more peanut butter, the whole doomsday package, know what I'm saying?"

_"Fire an' brimstone, got it,"_ Gordon replied, while partly turned away. There was another craft about 5,000 feet below him and moving fast.

_"So what does this ruddy amazin' spectre prompt me t' do?"_

Alan grinned.

"You're going to wake up, all inspired and junk, then use the shattered crystal to call up Frodle, Allat and Male Elf for a trip north past the Ice Wall into troll and giant territory."

_"And why would I do a daft thing like that? Skewerin' wild monsters pays not at all!"_

"Ah-hah! But you realize that _somewhere_ under the ice is the crater left behind when that chunk of sky-metal fell to Midworld. _That's_ the metal that the Fairies forged their crown from in the first place! So, if you head up there with a party, dodge the monsters, avoid starvation and freezing cold and find the crater, you could, like, make a _new _crown for the Fairy Realm, help them proclaim an heir and save the world. Well…? Huh…?"

John shook his head.

"I'm busy," he said. "The odds stink, so if it's all the same to everyone else, I'll go on painting the town and enjoying my dissolute life-style."

But, Alan was prepared for that. Rolling both dice at once, he peered down at the resulting numbers like a fortune-teller and then said,

"Sorry, man. You're broke."

John's customary non-expression shifted to 'mildly perturbed', and he sat up, saying,

"How? I had 75,000 gold sovereigns after that business with the Shadow Tower."

Alan sighed in mock sympathy.

"Wine, women and song, dude. They'll break you in no time flat. In fact, you can't even pay your bar tab!"

"Can't I just deepen my friendship with the tavern wench, again? Work off what I owe?"

Another sad head shake.

"Her husband's getting suspicious. He's wondering where all the mead's gone, and why Claire keeps smiling."

John muttered something under his breath, slumping again.

"Fine," he said at last. "I answer the damn call."

Fermat, his expression and tone deeply reproving, said,

"Well, I'll c- come… along, just b- because it's the r- right thing to d- do. Sir Gawain c- can count on… me!"

_His_ current character was a young Halfling scholar named Frodle; a deeply studious reader of scrolls and brewer of potions who also sidelined in ancient runes. Very handy.

"W- What about you… Alan?"

The blonde boy/ ninja-thief could scarcely contain himself.

"Are you kidding?" he demanded. "It's gonna be great!"

…Until the alarm went off, choked suddenly silent and then blared again, shrill and disturbing.

10


	2. 2: Survival Tracy Island

Thanks for the reviews, ED, Cathrl, Tikatu, Artay, Sam and GrumpyMagrat; appreciation is herewith expressed! Freshly re-edited.

**2: Survival- Tracy Island**

The alert turned out to be less than code red, though certainly nothing but trouble, being, in fact, a reality show. When Alan, John and Fermat reached the office, Jeff Tracy was hunched in his big leather chair, staring at a comm screen and muttering under his breath. Scott and Virgil were down in 2's hangar, but headed upstairs, while Brains and TinTin were already there beside him. The engineer seemed as vexed as his employer. TinTin… less so.

"What the hell," Jeff grumbled, "is 'Survival', and what's it doing this close to us?"

"If you please, monsieur," TinTin said to him, giving Alan and the others a quick, nervous smile, "_It_ is Survival: South Pacific, a televised reality show. There is no harm in their presence, surely, though I had thought they were filming on Hawaii, not Ile St. Martin."

"S- So did, ah… did I, T- TinTin," said Dr. Hackenbacker. Fermat had joined him by this time, exchanging imaginary adventure for a very real father.

"G- Good evening, son. Do you know, ah… know anything about this b- business?"

Fermat opened his mouth to respond, but Alan got there first. Speaking to both the rumpled-and-ink-stained engineer and his own stern, immaculate father, he said,

"We knew they were switching locations, yeah, because of all the net-chat about the new challenges being fixed… y' know… not really so hard to endure, and junk? People were starting to complain, so they smoothed things over by moving. Didn't figure they'd come all the way out here, though."

See, Alan knew all about Survival because he only watched it faithfully, like, every single _day_. For most of his generation, the show had become an obsession.

In the last season, Survival: Singapore, he'd pinned his hopes and his pocket money on the hottest blonde, and lost it all to uncaring fate and a flubbed leadership challenge. (Life, huh?)

Fermat tuned in, as well, mostly to criticize the show's weak action sequences. Meanwhile, TinTin watched for some lame-o chick reason of her own, probably having to do with what's-his-name… jacktard… the host. Gordon, on the other hand, was usually too busy swimming to watch anything but his weight.

"The point is," Jeff growled, raking a hand through his very-grey hair, "that we can't have an entire damn camera crew and TV production unit this close to Island Base. They're within possible visual range of a launch, and that's simply unacceptable."

The elder Tracy drummed his fingers on the desk's polished teak surface. Brown eyes narrowing, he snapped,

"The question is, what's it going to take to convince them to leave Ile St. Martin, and how do we conceal operations in the meantime?"

Too many problems, and too difficult to deal with on an empty, de-caffeinated stomach. Pressing one of many desktop call buttons, Jeff said,

"Kyrano! Coffee and sandwiches to the office, please."

Then, not waiting for a reply, he turned his attention to Hackenbacker.

"Brains, ideas?"

The engineer nodded and loosened his tie.

"Y- Yes, Mr. Tracy. The, ah… the situation is certainly b- bothersome from a s- security standpoint. I suggest p- putting, ah… putting pressure on the studio r- responsible for the show, while J- John and I come up with an action p- plan for extra-stealthy Thunderbird launches."

John had been off to one side of the room, quietly flipping through an illustrated history of space exploration. Alan didn't think he was happy to be singled out; something about the way he squared his shoulders and very carefully set the book down before turning to face the others, maybe.

"Okay…" John tossed his bit into that expectant, stare-pocked silence, "…Shadowbot will keep the launches off radar… and Thunderbird 4 can stay underwater for a hundred more miles… but visuals on the rest could be problematic."

He paused, frowning down at a Persian rug while his fingers traced out the edges of that leather-bound book.

"Modifications to the force shields, maybe, or… something that'll warp visible spectrum EM waves might do the trick."

John could get obsessed by things, too, but they were different things than Alan's. Work, baseball, money, weird math problems; that kind of stuff. Their father nodded, hitting another button to unlock the lift for Scott and Virgil.

"Very well. Get started on that warping field, Brains… son. In the meantime, I'll see what my lawyers can do to blast Survival the hell off of St. Martin."

Okay… so, none of this would have mattered much to Alan, except for the coolness quotient, and the fact that he'd just had an awesome, wonderful, super-amazing idea. What if he convinced Gordon or John to fly him over to Ile St. Martin with a load of chocolate and toothpaste and hairspray? Wouldn't all those stressed-out, cleanliness-craving hotties be grateful? Maybe grateful enough to give him their phone number? (Instead of, like, the rejection hotline, which he was _really_ tired of.) Plus, Gordon was an Olympic athlete, John, a good-looking astronaut. What starlet-wannabe could resist fame by association?

Alan had to pinch his own leg, _hard,_ to stop himself from snickering aloud. Dude, he was _so_ in there!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The next day, a bright, tropical morning-_

John was cursing-himself-out-distracted by the invisibility field challenge, but a promise was a promise, and Grandma still needed a ride. She wanted to go to Confession, and that meant Tahiti. Gordon was due in, soon, but he'd probably want to just sleep for awhile, especially considering that he came clean pretty regularly, out in Madrid. TinTin went along, though.

Whatever. With half of his mind, John attended to flying. With most of the rest, he considered that light-warping energy field; visualizing the precise array of negatively refractive materials and quantum-scale loops it would take to guide light around a moving aircraft. Another part of his head was still locked in Alan's game, leaving very little attention for the ladies' conversation. Clothes, he thought… or cooking talk. Something like that.

Anyhow, the flight wasn't a long one, but his touch down could have used work. He flared the nose up a little late, having been struck by a sudden notion. Could some form of electronic memory-paint absorb and transmit incoming photons, spitting them out again at a point opposite their impact site? _Unchanged_, that is? John's thinking processes screwed themselves a little tighter, blocking out more of the outside world. Didn't even get his flight log done, which he'd get crap for, later.

Grandma and TinTin practically had to lead him into the church, mostly because he nearly missed the door. At times like these, the meat-space physical world was nothing but a giant pain in the ass. Inside the computer, back in his college days, John would simply have programmed himself a 3-D designing environment, jumped on in and started tinkering. Here, he had to walk, sit down and talk to people, all while trying to _think._

"What the h…?" He'd been nudged in the ribs by his sharp-eyed, velvet-skirted grandmother. "I mean: yes, Ma'am?"

"I _said_… are you comin' with us or not, John Matthew?"

He looked around then, genuinely surprised to find himself seated at a stone pew. The church was old, ornate and fairly crowded (for a Saturday). TinTin was already up, standing in line for one of the confessionals, but John didn't have the time or inclination.

"Um…"

"If you're comin' with us, I'm bringin' my purse," said the old woman, patting handbag and grandson alike with fierce, fond devotion. "'Cause there ain't no way I'm leavin' it alone, around all them sinners."

Evidently, whatever misdeeds freckled the soul of Victoria Tracy were _nothing_ compared to her hard-core and probably thieving fellow parishioners. John smiled at her, for once almost entirely in the moment.

"I'll stay here and guard your life savings, Grandma. TinTin's, too."

The old woman sighed, but didn't fuss at him. All she did was reach up to straighten his collar and smooth his blond hair.

"Well, then. You keep an eye on things, boy, and think about sayin' some prayers while you're at it. Wouldn't hurt you none to light a few candles, too. Anyhow, I'll be back straightaway."

She touched his face as John handed her to her feet, one of those grandma things Victoria Tracy got away with that no one else would have tried. She wanted him to sit down and talk with Father Arnold, but it wasn't happening. Not now, and maybe not ever.

"You go ahead, Grandma," he told her, patting the woman's chilly, spider-veined hand. "I'll stay here and defend the goods."

After all, keeping watch was his job.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Later, in Lab 4B-_

Alan had a heck of a time getting everyone back together. Gordon was still half-asleep-cranky, and John so busy planning modifications to the Thunderbird craft that he'd brought in a laptop of his own in order to keep working. Only Fermat was one-hundred percent focused, Alan's mind being sort of… chick-ified. But,

"Okay," he said, once everyone was settled, "So, Gawain strikes his part of the shattered crystal, and the rest of us get a chime from the piece we're each carrying."

John mumbled something about 'macro-scale entanglement' but Alan ignored him because, hey, nobody likes a smart-aleck.

"Frodle's in his study cell at the Temple of High Knowledge. Hearing the call, he leaps up all excited and junk, almost forgetting to put away that scroll of ancient healing spells."

Fermat shook and rolled his blue dice with a Las Vegas-style flourish. When they'd stopped bouncing, he consulted the uppermost numbers, and grinned.

"I m- managed to… copy down a f- few more spells in my… tome," he announced. "We'll p- probably need them, too!"

"No 'probably' about it, Dude," boasted Alan. "You better pack all the white magic and lucky charms that satchel of yours will hold. I'm for dead-serious."

But Fermat snorted.

"Tough talk, GM. Put your dice w- where your… mouth is."

Alan smiled.

"Okay, sure… and this time tomorrow, you'd better remember you asked for it. _Any_how… Allat the Shade is slipping into the lost treasure chamber of Queen Shan, when _his_ shard goes off. Um… let's see, here…"

He rolled the dice, and then scowled.

"Dang it! The noise alerts a pair of skeleton guards! They peel themselves off the wall and advance on my position. I'm wearing my shadow cloak…"

Alan rolled again. _Two._

"…but they're not fooled. They can see my body heat, or something."

His character, Allat, backed hastily against a wall, kicking over piles of gold sovereigns and ropes of pierced silver cash as he went. The bony, rattling pair drew closer, following something other than mere scent or sight. Then,

"I whip out my katana, Wind Blade, and…"

Two, again.

"You gotta be kidding me! How could I miss, at that range?"

"'Cause y'r bloody terrified of th' walkin' dead," Gordon roused himself long enough to put in. Man, he looked beat! "Try somethin' else."

"Wind of Passage," John suggested, without raising his eyes from keyboard and screen.

"Yeah, okay… thanks, man."

The skeletons, held together with moldering sinew and sputtering curse-magic, armed with rusted and festering weapons, had split up to approach Allat from two sides. They looked like crap, okay, but could take a _thousand_ hits and keep on coming.

"Allat reaches into the bag of holding, and locates a certain parcel. He pulls it out, keeping his katana up for defense…"

Another roll. _Sixteen, _this time.

"…And, yeah, buddy! He parries a blow!"

Moving swiftly, his character fumbled a pinch of ruby-colored powder from its stiff leather box, then turned and puffed the bright stuff at the nearest wall, shouting…

"One!"

…in a loud voice. An arched opening appeared in the wall, visible and accessible only to young Allat, who immediately lunged on through. None too soon, either.

A corroded sword splintered itself against hard stone an instant later, making a noise like the bell of a drowned ship. Nasty, but no longer his problem; for, just like that, Allat was in another part of the tomb.

"Okay… All better now and safe-snuggies. On my way to bust Gawain right in the face for nearly getting me killed, too! Way to go, dingle-dork!"

"Always a pleasure," Gordon replied, draining half the Pepsi bottle at one go. "But carry on with th' sarcasm, mate, and y'll get handed each an' every crap job this quest has t' offer."

Right. Tired _and_ grouchy. _Sheesh._

"Yeah, yeah… untwist your steel long-johns and calm down, Sir Gopher. Remember, _I_ alone stand between you and, like, total, crashing ruin. The magical dice know all."

"Do they know _my _scenario?" John interrupted. "Because Hackenbacker wants another consult. I need to go."

"Uh, yeah…"

Alan flipped through his papers.

"Let's see… Male Elf… The shard goes off, and then you're climbing out the bedroom window of your latest conquest, with a 20-piece silver cash string and a major hangover. She blows you lots of tearful kisses, and then you start down, feeling for toeholds and ivy branches to grab for. There's a knock at her bedroom door. someone's shouting 'Meggie!'"

Charisma dice roll: Twenty-four.

_"Whoa!_ She _really_ likes you, dude. She ignores whoever's pounding at her door, and starts tossing down family heirlooms: _more_ money and an unidentified, lumpy sack. Do you try to field them?"

John was shutting down his laptop.

"Yeah," he decided, cribbing one of Gordon's pale dice for a quick roll. "One-armed sweep, snatching both from midair."

Said Alan, leaning up and out of his seat to confirm John's number,

"You got 'em. The one bag feels like pretty small change, but the other's _moving_. Do you keep it?"

John shrugged. Over one shoulder, as he headed out the door, he said,

"Yeah. Long enough for a closer look, anyway. Maybe it's really active headache powder."

He could've used it, just then.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Earlier, within the framework of their RPG-_

In the forested Southlands, it pays to remain alert. Sir Gawain of Espan was a Knight of the Cross; impulsive, generous and friendly, but often alone. On this particular occasion, Gawain was up well before dawn to break his fast and strike camp.

St. George grunted and sighed, wandering over to nudge more speed out of Gawain. The big white horse had reputedly been sired by a pooka on a high-necked eastern mare. Certainly, he was bold and intelligent, and had come remarkably cheap. Cheap was good.

The fading night air was cold, but spring wasn't very old yet, and the trees were just donning their first green. Bread and dried beef had made up his breakfast and the fire was naught but damp ashes, when Gawain felt the pull.

Very weak, it was, but there; like a faint, silvery tug from the wooded hills behind him. Interested (he wasn't expected at Falkirk for weeks, yet) Gawain armed himself and set off to investigate. He came across the first corpses rather quickly. Dark elves, they were, arrow-shot by one of their own kind. He knew this because the shafts were long and black, fletched in barbs of greenish-blue. There was a thin copper band painted upon each arrow, but Gawain couldn't tell how the heads were formed. Very often, such weapons were cursed or poisoned, and it was dangerous to yank them free or reuse them.

Two, three… as he rode toward hill and morning, Gawain counted no less than seven sprawled bodies, all of them armed and armored, each of them shot through the eye. Civil war? Family quarrel? Hard to say, with dark elves. At any rate, Gawain should have left, but there was still that subtle, grieving pull.

Elven gold puffed away into sunshine come morning, while dark elf items melted into pools of fetid water. With dawn advancing as it was, there'd be nothing left for Gawain to find, if he didn't hurry along. Concerned, he touched heels to St. George, clucking a bit and looking around.

The pull drew him upward, to the top of a balding, rocky hill. A few tumbled menhirs yet crowned it, marking the hill as a high place. A place of power. And there, not quite in the center of that tumbled stone ring, with his bloodstained weapons to hand, was…

Truthfully, Gawain wasn't certain. An elf of some description, lacking the grey skin and red eyes of the dark tribes, but surely no creature of light. Whatever his origins, the pallid and huddled manling was wounded. Sir Gawain reigned in to stare, but the other ignored him, as though the knight had been no more than another tall menhir.

"It's comin' on f'r dawn, soon," he said at last, jerking his red head eastward. "Hadn't you better get below?"

The response was short and stoic: a brief glare, followed by,

"No."

"You'll die, then. Judgin' by the smell, your former associates're already turnin' black at th' edges. You'll not be long behind them."

"Shit happens."

Right, then. Looking around, Gawain spotted signs of a quick, botched ritual; ashes, a bright little knife and a leather flask. There was blood, as well, from several body wounds and a clumsily wrapped hand. Peering closer, Sir Gawain could see that he was missing the tips of two fingers. Cleanly, though, as though they'd been deliberately removed, not chopped at.

Gawain switched his attention from windy hill top to grumbling horse. St. George had rotated his ears forward and flared his nostrils, but he didn't seem alarmed. So, making up his mind, the knight swung himself out of the saddle, landing lightly despite chain mail, weapons and surcoat.

"What are you doing?" the not-quite dark elf demanded, placing a damaged hand upon one of the sword hilts projecting from his leather belt. Couldn't quite straighten himself, though.

"Gettin' your pasty arse t' shelter. Y' drew me here, so that means y'r in need of assistance. More than that, it means y' somehow _deserve_ it."

The creature was close to done, but he rallied enough to snap,

"Piss off. I don't need any help, and I didn't summon you."

Harsh words, but St. George ambled right past Gawain to snuff at the elf's damp, silvery hair. Looking for sugar or carrots, most likely. All he got was a lingering pat, though. That… and a tired, half-conscious lean.

"Right."

Gawain loosed the catch on his travel cloak, whipped it off and stepped forward, meaning to wrap the heavy red garment about his new acquaintance. Already, a sparkle of bright sun was cresting the hilltop. In his weakened state, despite the attempted cleansing ritual, the elf wouldn't survive full sunlight. Again, Gawain should have left, but stubbornly, stupidly, he wanted the creature to live. Sometimes, he could be hard-headed that way.

Too weak or despondent to struggle, the wounded elf allowed himself to be rescued.

"You've a name?" Gawain asked, as he shoved the tightly-shrouded figure onto St. George.

"Not any more," came the quiet, too-calm reply.

"Very well. 'Male Elf' it is, then. I'm Gawain of Espan, Knight of the Cross, sworn t' serve th' good and beautiful Lady Anelle. Pleased t' make y'r acquaintance, master elf."

"I'm sure."

Though he didn't know it at the time, the knight had just made himself a vexing, but last-breath reliable, friend. Others would follow.


	3. 3: Wish Fulfillment

Second, relatively minor edit. Thanks, Tikatu, ED and Magrat, for your reviews. :)

**3: Wish Fulfillment**

_Reality-_

A swift flick of the TV remote at 7:30 on Monday night would bring you to channel 52, home of Survival: South Pacific. _Cool._

There were televisions in most rooms of the Tracy household, including the largest bathroom. Alan's bedroom suite had _two_, but he chose to sit in the den with Fermat and TinTin, instead. More fun, that way, with a giant flat-screen high-def putting the action right in your quivering lap.

There was the usual scramble to get things together… snacks and drinks and stuff… followed by a lot of noisy, wriggly couch-diving and dimming of lights. (The house mood-music had to go, too. Normally, it didn't bother him much, but nobody wanted smooth jazz messing up Survival.)

Anyways, at 7:25, Alan jerked his hand out of the popcorn bowl long enough to grab a remote and raise the volume, eager to find out just who had descended on Ile St. Martin, bringing hotness anddrama right along with them. This season, the cast had been kept very much under wraps, and all the filming was going to be live. Neat, huh?

At his button press, the sound level jumped from humanly tolerable to trump-of-doom. Seriously. Like, the popcorn shook, and everything.

_"…to a brand-new season of __Survival__, the contest where __one__ person will walk away with ten million dollars and an Omni Entertainment movie contract! __Who__ will it be, this time?"_

The Survival logo had flashed onto their screen by then: a pirate-style skull and crossed bones on a blood-red backdrop. Next came a photo-montage of contestants, all of them young and attractive. Twelve men and women in every shade of sexy.

Dramatic music swelled as the host appeared. He was Jason Vann, a toothy and muscular drip with highlighted hair and green contacts. The sort of guy who tinted his eyebrows and kept a stable of fawning agents on speed-dial. Obvious loser, right? Worse than that Rick O'Shea moron, you'd think. But the chicks went wild for him anyway, going on and on about his "smoldering gaze".

What_ever._

Alan didn't know a thing about gazes, but even he couldn't miss that voice. Big, urgent and gossipy, it was; like Jason Vann had a way-cool secret, meant just for _you._

_"This season," _Vann barked, smoldering for the camera, _"Our contestants are divided into two clans of six players each. Trojans vs. Amazons on a hunt for the fabled Treasure of Zeus! What will happen? Who will be deserted? Which player will compete, overcome and survive?_

_"Shall it be William Tanner? Ben Speed? Peyton Spence? Or is it Grant Bryce? Mariana Murphy? Or Brick Sampson?_

_"Does Chandra Rison have what it takes to defeat her competitors? Or Blyss James, perhaps? Only time, skill and luck will reveal the winner. Only __your__ votes can overturn clan banishment or block a supply raid. __Your__ final decision will crown Vance Shafer or Bambi Laughlin. __Your__ combined will could shield Cade Melton and Ling Smith from the Ultimate Challenge! Only __you__. Tune in to watch. Tune in to compete. Tune in to __Play __the __Game__!"_

Yeah, buddy! Alan already knew who _he_ was voting for: Bambi Laughlin, the blonde and curvaceous dental hygienist from Duluth. According to her 3-minute profile, Bambi wanted to become a star, cure disease and save the world. Well, she could start saving right here, with _him_. Dude, why didn't anyone they rescued ever look like that?

The first episode was mostly set-up, and Alan's mind raced as one contestant after another gave their heart-tugging life story. Dad would be going to St. Martin, for sure. All Alan had to do was arrange to be included, and bring along a few little luxuries. Question was... how was he supposed to get piles of chick-stuff in time to do any good?

Alan shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth and then threw a seat cushion at Fermat, who pretty much ducked the soft missile. Pretty much. Instead of nailing him square, the hand-embroidered pillow just grazed the younger boy and shot past to strike TinTin, who spilled her soda and squalled like a Siamese cat.

Whoa. Some people could _not_ take a dang joke!

But, wait… T was a chick, right? _She_ probably had tons of chocolate and face-goop and some of those see-through tights girls always wore. Betcha, somewhere in her room was, like, the lost Golden City of (OMG!) Chica-gear.

Except that she wasn't likely to hand all her swag over, free and clear. Not if he told her what he wanted it for. No, he and Fermat would just have to sneak in there and capture the flag… or the panty-hose. Their cause couldn't have been nobler: Truth, Justice and getting Alan some grateful-starlet attention. But, whatever his reasons, Alan had until tomorrow morning to make a move and storm the Girly-goods Citadel.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Lab 4B, third day of the RPG-_

Alan's mind was only half in the game, mostly because he was still working out how to convince Fermat to join the supply-raid. One way or another, though, he got the game re-started.

John showed up late, with his ever-present laptop and loads of work to do. After all this, he was probably going to, like, do frickin' handsprings back into space. Anything, for a little rest.

Fermat was all hyper and junk from too much soda and television. He wanted to start the game, like, _now._ Right the heck now. Just shut up and roll, y'know?

Gordon smelled like chlorine and his hair was still damp, but he looked better rested than he had the night before. That was good, because it meant that he'd play more seriously, maybe making up for John's distracted grunts and half-hearted rolls. _Or…_ Alan could do something to shake Mr. Freeze up a little…

"Okay," he announced, setting out his hex maps and rule books. "We'll start with Male Elf. You paying attention, John?"

"Yeah. Fire away," his blond older brother responded, without looking up. Big, _big,_ mistake.

Alan rolled a 20-sider. Got a 17, thought hard for, like, a real quick second, and then started talking.

"Okey-doke, brother mine. Male Elf melts into the alley shadows, with his former sweetie still calling his name from her window. There's not much of a moon and the wind's died down, so Male Elf has a stealth advantage over the city guard and most animals. Encounters are avoided until… okay… you reach the south wall, and have to stop short. The gates are closed up tight, with watch-fires and a pair of armored guards on either side, plus one really big mastiff. There's a wagon parked beside the city wall, with… um… let's see, here… hay. It's got baled hay in it, stacked about ten feet high."

"Wall's in good repair?" John asked, clicking the send button. _One_ _down_.

"Yeah. Same as last time. You've been in town for a few days, so you've had a chance to case the defenses without arousing suspicion."

John started on another aspect of Brains' invisibility project. Thinking back to previous games, he said,

"Ellenton City… Twenty-foot walls, right? Stone and rubble mix, wide enough for a single horseman, or two armored guards to patrol the top? Thought so. This'll be the southern gate, which is solid oak timbers, spiked and banded with cold iron. Yeah. Funnily enough, I don't feel like impaling myself, tonight, or waiting till dawn, either. What else is nearby, besides the wagon? Any buildings close enough to climb?"

Alan rolled for it. _19_.

"You're in luck, bro. Somebody just added onto their house this very week. They're expecting quadruplets, or something. Anyways, their house is almost close enough for you to jump safely from roof to wall top, if you're real careful. The guards are _particularly_ alert tonight, though, 'cause they just got reamed out for falling asleep on the job, like, yesterday. So, you're gonna have to roll to see if you make it over."

"Another day at the office," John muttered, pushing his laptop aside for a quick cat-stretch. _Those guards were going to be a problem._

"W- Why don't you try a… spell?" Fermat suggested helpfully. "Surely y- you have… a few m- memorized."

"Not th' curse powder, though," Gordon cut in, hastily swallowing a mouthful of watered-blackcurrant squash, "It has a tendency t' backfire, if y' recall."

"Vividly."

John had no desire to spend another three campaigns earning his soul back.

"I'll go with a light compulsion spell, and tread quietly."

Waving a thin hand in the presumed direction of a phantom wall and imaginary guards, he said,

"Klaatu barada nikto."

"Uh-uh! No way!" Alan shot back, reaching for the rule book. "What kind of dumb-butt spell is _that?"_

"An effective one," his brother responded, smiling obscurely. "Especially handy for controlling angry mobs and large metal objects."

"Yeah, right. You're full of crap, John. The spell's gonna fail, and your jump'll fall short, dumping you right on top of a really surprised guard. He's probably lonely, too."

Paging madly through the rule book got him pretty much nowhere, because Alan was a slow reader. Always had been. Gordon saved the day, though.

"Roll f'r it," the swimmer told Alan. "I'm willin' to accept th'… erm… 'spontaneous Elven magic' if Fermat does."

The bespectacled youngster grinned happily.

"S- Sure, if next time… we see a z- zombie, I get to… say 'Abra Cadaver'! Always w- wanted… to do that."

Alan scowled, looking up from the dog-eared rule book with one finger pressed down to mark his spot.

"Ha, very ha. You guys better start playing serious, before I conjure up a Kool-Aid elemental and drown you in a tidal wave of strawberry-kiwi!"

John actually, like, almost laughed.

"Make it beer," he said. "And send along a pretzel golem while you're at it. We'll die drunk and well fed."

Alan grabbed the dice, thinking, _'Dude, you are __so__ busted! You're going down!'_

…Except that Captain Untouchable lucked out, again. Game fortune didn't just hover over John; it sat on his lap and blew in his ear. _Dang it!_

"Whoopee. The spell works," Alan grumped. "You make it up the building addition unseen and leap across to the wall. Shockingly, nobody notices."

Another roll, with brighter results. (Two threes, this time.)

"But one of the bags that Meggie tossed you falls; the money sack. You've still got the other, so…"

"Is the way clear?" John interrupted, resuming work at his laptop. "No guards, machine gun nests, or pissed-off husbands?"

"Nope. All clear," Alan sighed, making a few notes on his brother's character sheet.

"Then I'll open the remaining bag," John told him, reaching for Fermat's dice, in case a saving throw became necessary.

_'Hah! Gotcha, now, Frosty!'_

Alan smothered a grin of triumph while making two separate and very sinister dice rolls.

"Okay. You back into the shadows for a closer look. The bag is black velvet, and it's still moving. There's braided leather ties sealed together with this, like, weirdly-inscribed silver medallion thing. You…?"

"Open it."

Mister Oblivious actually seemed _bored._ Well, Alan had a real fast cure for the sleepies. Right in the bag, you might say.

"Male Elf twists the medallion off, shattering an ancient, crusty old seal. The ties unknot themselves, there's a blast of cold air and a smell like… um… like corroded metal mixed with ash. Something leaps out of the bag and onto your left arm. It's a copper serpent-thing, and it winds around your arm, real tight. Nuh-uh. No saving throws on this one, dude. You're stuck. Before you can react, it sinks straight through your sleeve and into your skin, becoming a coppery snake tattoo, except that it moves to avoid light."

_That_ got his attention. John stopped typing, to give Alan a brief, hard stare. He didn't get mad, or anything. Just… sort of strange and intense. Like, how weird was this: he actually looked down at his _real_ left arm for a second, and rubbed at it. Then, very quietly,

"Okay. What is it?"

Alan shook his spiky-haired head.

"You don't know yet, even with spells. You're going to have to ask Frodle, when you meet him at the tavern."

John looked away again, but Alan got this crazy impression that he'd genuinely rattled his brother. Time to change the subject, maybe.

"Okay, so you make it off the wall and down the other side without further problems. The snake tattoo just occasionally moves around or squeezes you to get attention. And, uh… hey! It's Fermat's turn."

"Woo-hoo!" The younger boy exulted, pumping a clenched fist in the air. Not only was he about to play, but he now had a major research job ahead of him, maybe even tougher than the soul-retrieving incident.

"S- Set the stage, D- Dungeon Master. I'm ready t- to… roll!"

Alan sighed again, and shook his head. Fermat was a dorky little guy, but kinda fun, y'know?

"Right. Earlier that day, back at the Temple of Knowledge, you're gathering up your things. Frodle stuffs scrolls and vials and amulets into his satchel, grabs his tome, ink pot and staff, and then leaves the study cell to seek out the Chief Scholar, Master Letterlaw."

Fermat was perfectly still now, all but shimmering as he visualized Alan's descriptions. His character Frodle trotted along a marble-columned cloister, blinking in all that unaccustomed daylight, like a tubby little mole.

Up the broad stairs he went, past groups of murmuring fellow clerks and scholars, each as preoccupied as he was. At the highest tier of the white temple lay the master's book-stuffed chamber.

Frodle set aside his staff, and then bowed himself through the open doorway. Big, arched windows let in shafts of golden light and a gentle breeze. Unlit beeswax candles in brass holders and rustling white papers caught the daylight and bounced it around, but the Chief Scholar seemed to gather it in his small person.

Master Letterlaw was an elderly Halfling, grey and bent, but shining with wisdom. He looked up from the tome he'd been reading, the brown eyes behind their polished spectacles warm and bright. Sitting a bit higher on his tall stool, the Chief Scholar said,

"Ah… Well met, young Frodle. How may I direct you, sister-son?"

He was warmly wrapped in robe and cloak despite the spring day, and he drank occasionally from a mug of spell-heated tea. Frodle bowed as low as his thick little body would allow.

"Master," he said, "I have received an urgent summons from my friend Gawain, who I believe is known to you."

Old Letterlaw nodded. A smile touched his lined face.

"Yes. A young warrior of the race of Men. Red-haired, as I recall, and rather quick to fight."

Frodle shuffled both sandaled feet. Hands clasped behind him, he said,

"That is so, Master, when cause to do battle exists, yet…"

"Over-fond of the bottle, perhaps, and no stranger to the females of his species, either," the old Halfling continued mischievously, shutting his leather-bound tome.

Frodle coughed, slightly.

"There is some truth to these rumors, Master Letterlaw, but I assure you that…"

"Owes the odd gambling debt, too, together with a tidy sum for his sword and armor… though he bargained well for the fairy-horse, I must say."

When Frodle did nothing but redden, the chief Scholar prodded gently,

"_This_, then, is the Gawain of whom you speak?"

Frodle lowered his dark eyes, but his voice remained firm.

"The very same, Master," he insisted quietly.

"And you wish leave to depart the Temple for a span of 6 months, 2 weeks, 3 days and a morning, all in order to help this knight, a young thief and one badly confused elf stir up further trouble?"

Frodle's jaw dropped. For one so wise as the Chief Scholar, the Book of Days before him held past, present and future. Frodle's tome, by comparison, was a mere shadow play.

"Not… not trouble, Master, surely. Whatever Sir Gawain intends is doubtless good. He… Uncle, he is my friend and, by your leave, I would answer the call with all speed."  
Old Letterlaw's smile broadened, and his eyes twinkled gently. The giant book before him rustled faintly, as though another vellum page had just written itself.

"Yes, indeed. You will go, my sister-son, with permission, provision and blessing. May Understanding, Wisdom and the love of Knowledge light your paths and keep you ever safe."

The old Halfling extended a gnarled hand, palm outward, sending a blessing like sunlight to warm and enfold Frodle. The young scholar clasped both hands before himself and bowed.

"I thank you, Master. I will return with descriptions, maps and specimens aplenty."

Letterlaw nodded at him.

"I have heard that the fire-flowers out north are especially effective against bone-stiffness, when taken as tea. Should you see fit to collect a handful of leaves and seeds, I would consider myself amply rewarded, sister-son."

Absolutely. Fire-flower, heart's ease, wake-mint… every herb good and true, Frodle silently promised to dig up and bring back. But… _north?_ What, the young Halfling wondered, could Gawain and the others possibly want from _that_ drear, monster-haunted land?


	4. 4: Uneven Odds

Newly re-edited.

**4: Uneven Odds**

There is no such thing as coincidence…

_Lab 4B, a little later-_

It was Gordon's turn to play and, for once, he was rested, prepared and _present._ Quite the occasion, and Alan meant to make the most of it.

"Okay, dude… it's nearly sunset and you're totally worn out… got the shakes, and everything… but you're smack in the middle of nowheres, still; the Wylds of Kesh, where it's definitely unsafe to stop. So, thus-and-however, as you're walking along beside your horse…"

"Visibly armed, am I?" Gordon asked him, leaning forward intently with a d20 in one hand and a very serious expression on his face.

"Yup. Pretty much 24-7, around Kesh. I mean, there's this crazy-smiling, knife-edge moon in the sky that keeps ducking behind some tattered clouds. It sheds some light on a few miserable trees that aren't big or numerous enough to support a decent population of Elves, or even a couple of really short Nymphs. The ground is sort of mucky, away from the path, covered in waist-high bleached grass, fallen mehhirs and the shattered remains of stupid adventurers who _didn't listen to their DM!"_

(Gordon had begun scanning his character sheet for feats and spells. At Alan's sharp comment, he set the paper back down and resumed paying attention.)

"Right. Sorry. You were sayin'?"

Alan scowled at him, made a big show of rattling and adjusting his own papers, and then continued.

"The surroundings are crazy-bleak. You're armed, all right, and even your horse is on high alert; ears swiveling, head up and snorting the wind. Roll a spot check."

Gordon threw the silvery die from his cupped left hand against his flattened right.

"Twelve," he announced, "with a plus-3 modifier against sneak attacks an' undead."

"Uh-huh," Alan responded, rolling two d20s of his own. "Okay: you sense trouble. Something in the wind's off-key notes or the way those menhir shadows all seem to be moving on their own and taking weird shapes. It's getting colder, too, as the sun finally decides to leave you."

"Bloody hell," Gordon muttered. "A coven of hags, at th' very least."

Then,

"Sensin' danger, I cast off th' backpack, mount up an' draw m' sword, then pray a spell: _smite evil."_

Good choice, all things considered. Alan could have rolled for Gawain's success at mounting the horse under extreme stress, and then had him tumble off the other side no matter which numbers came up. Another time, he would have done it. After all, what was the fun of Dungeon Mastering, if you didn't get to torture your players, once in awhile? He stuck to business this time, though, because Sir Gawain was about to have more than enough to worry about.

The red-haired knight drew his weapon, the Sword of Dread Slaughter. Even without full moonlight, its long blade burned with a cold and angry fire. In its hilt, the holy symbol glowed fiercely enough to sear the eye, warning all who cared to pay heed. Bloody hell on Earth, indeed. And him without time to don armour. The shield, though; that, at least, he could manage.

Gawain fumbled his white-and-red-crossed shield out of its case and onto his right arm, whilst the sword shifted eagerly, becoming longer and double-edged. No time for aught else but a swift warding prayer, because the wind's 7-note, insane song had risen in pitch.

_("Faerie's bridge is falling down…")_

Then, arranged about him like a pentagram, five cracks opened in the boggy ground. A black smoke of buzzing flies boiled up from each one. St. George bugled loudly, stamping and pawing at the ground.

"Steady on, lad," Gawain whispered, interrupting a second spell-prayer. "Tis not as bad as all that."

_Yet._

The vermin-smoke coalesced into five separate, mounted shapes. A coven of demon knights appeared, armed and armored in serrated, glistening black, each posted at the terminal point of a large pentagram. Their steeds were scaled starvelings, with scorpion tails and manes of hissing snakes. The riders stank of the pit, but in appearance were oddly beautiful; like the corpse of a frozen child.

_"Seventh son of a seventh son…"_ one of them sing-songed.

_"Red-haired…" _crooned another.

_"Left handed…" _added the next around.

_"Luckless, penniless…"_

_"And claimed for his own by our lord,"_ finished the last, with dead eyes and a hauntingly sweet smile.

St. George neighed wildly, baring long teeth. The demon mounts answered in kind, but their neighing was the sound of roaring flame, and their teeth orange as a rat's.

"Shut y'r lies!" Gawain raged, recalling at the last moment to add, "_Smite __evil!"_

The spell radiated outward, flattening the grasses and setting fire to a few withered trees. Three of the demon mounts disintegrated beneath their still-smiling riders. One of the knights expired likewise, blown away as ash on that crazed, keening, nursery-rhyme wind. The other four attacked with fell blades and dark spells, charging inward from their pentacle points.

_"Holy Fire!"_ the trapped Cross-Knight shouted, leveling his sword at the closest demon. A jet of white flame shot forth, and the creature burned like a druid's wicker man. There was little time left for magic, then, as the knights of hell were upon him.

Beset from three sides, Gawain ducked a _ray_ _of_ _enfeeblement_. He hewed about himself with the Sword of Dread Slaughter, which flickered repeatedly; stabbing and shrinking like a dragon's sharp tongue. Each cut and jab trailed blue flame, hot as a sky bolt. Burning ichor spurted forth like stinking rain, but several of the demons' spells and slashes hit home as well, numbing and blackening Gawain's right shoulder and leg. Draining him.

_"Wind of Protection!"_ he gasped, as St. George reared up to club a demon from its snapping mount. The hell-horse sank its orange snags into St. George's hide and struck with its scorpion's tail. Black venom flowed, but the spell took hold an instant later, casting a brief bubble-like ward around Gawain and St. George, both.

The sword took another shape, that of a loaded and cocked light crossbow, this time. Gawain leveled it at one of his shimmering, half-seen attackers. Pressing the trigger, he simultaneously shouted,

"In the Lord's Name… for the honor of Lady Anelle… _BEGONE!"_

The crossbow sang and a mighty bonfire arose with Gawain at its centre. Thank caring Saints and natural Powers that it worked, too, for he'd nothing left in him, at all.

The wind of protection vanished like a popped bubble, leaving Gawain and St. George standing alone amidst piles of ash and a few buzzing flies.

"Mus'… be doin' th' right thing," Gawain murmured blurrily, "Or I'd not attract s' much infernal attention. Thanks be t' G…"

He didn't quite finish the rest, tumbling from his saddle to collapse on the charred path.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"And…?" Gordon demanded, still hot and heavy from all that spell casting and blade swinging. "What 'appens next?"

Alan shrugged.

"Sorry, bro. Turn's over. You'll just have to wait for the next round."

But the swimmer wasn't having any.

"And in th' meantime, whilst y'r out pickin' pockets an' kissin' th' fair damsels, I'm bein' robbed an' havin' my damn throat slit by a lot of bloody kobolds. Worse still, _St. George is poisoned! He might be dyin'!"_

Alan rolled his eyes, and then the dice.

"Okay, fine… you're not unconscious. Just, like, stunned."

"I put my hands on St. George," Gordon told him, but Alan shook his blond head, saying,

"Dude, for real, I wouldn't. You're not in good enough shape to fold a paper napkin, much less waste magic on…"

"I lay on hands, an' cure th' damn horse!" Gordon insisted, slapping his palms down flat on the table to lever himself up and forward.

"But…"

"I'd listen to the man," said John, not looking away from his laptop screen. Although apparently disinterested, he'd already given Gordon several good spell suggestions. "You're not going to win without a fight, Alan."

…Which, of course, meant that he wouldn't win; _period_. Gordon had at least 90 pounds on him and a whole lot of bitter experience. The athlete hadn't broken his nose running into a corner, after all.

"Fine. Okay. Whatever. Gawain blows valuable magic and lifeforce curing a stupid dang fairy horse that probably would have healed itself, anyways. He loses 3 more HP, and slips toward unconsciousness."

"B- But it was… a good-hearted deed, a- anyhow," Fermat assured them all, reaching across to punch Gordon's broad shoulder. "And St. George w- will surely… find a w- way to pay you back."

"Thanks, mate."

On a sudden hunch, Alan rolled for it.

"Yeppers. He stands guard while you rest and meditate, driving away some kobolds and a swarm of stirges. Guess it _was_ a good call."

To his across-right, John muttered a short, pithy curse, backspaced and began retyping. _Aww_… poor Iceman had temporarily lost focus or something (plus being all torqued, still, about the tattoo-snake thing. _Heh!_ If only he knew…)

"I'll rest a bit," Gordon decided, "then heal m'self as best I can, an' head f'r Falkirk."

Alan sighed. Why the heck did _anyone, __ever,_ DM? At this point, he was about ready to pull out his hair in ragged bunches.

"Dude… she's kinda-sorta out of the way, if you're still planning to meet us at Meretown."

"I'll turn up," the red-head insisted with quiet dignity. "After a potion or two, an' th' chance t' kiss her hands."

(Meaning, of course, the Lady Anelle.)

Alan could have said something like…

_"Chill, bro. She ain't __all__ that."_

…but, see, he wanted to live. So,

"Sure, why not. What's an extra day's travel when the fate of, like, the whole dang Midworld is at stake. Gawain wants his ouchies and hurties massaged by the pretty lady. So dumb-butt limps off to dang Falkirk, while I…"

Alan grabbed a huge handful of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, stuffed it all into his mouth at once, and then rolled.

"M… goin'…fru… barrowlans…"

He swallowed and got one spiky, partly-chewed chip caught in his throat, sideways. A giant gulp of cherry soda took care of that, though.

"So, thus-and- (like) –however, I sneak past the barrows of lost kings using my world-class roguish stealth. _Ka-chow!_ I rock, in any universe! Bow down before Allat, lesser ones, and admit that he…"

Several big paper wads got thrown at him, then, forcing Alan to duck and hastily continue.

"Yeah… so, there I am, using stealth and one charge on my dark rod to avoid attention, picking up the odd coin and magical item along the way. I'm, um… let's see, here… rolled 16 for initiative… I'm the first after Frodle to show up at our table in the Crossroads Tavern. Male Elf arrives the next day, even broker and more preoccupied than usual. But Sir Gawain's _mysteriously_ _late_, for some unexplained, no doubt _vital_ _to_ _this_ _quest_, reason. And that…"

Alan glanced around at his, like, peoples.

"…is a wrap, folks. We'll pick up again tomorrow; same bat-time, same bat-channel. Fermat, could I talk to you a second?"

He had raiding plans, Alan did, but the mission required a scout-and-decoy man, if it was going to succeed. Meanwhile, as Jeff Tracy shouted over his vid-phone and finalized plans to head for Ile St. Martin with Virgil and TinTin, something shifted, deep beneath the sea.


	5. 5: A Sense of Purpose

Thanks ED, Tikatu and Grumpy Magrat, for the kind reviews. Replies forthcoming. Oops!Fourth edit...

**5: A Sense of Purpose**

_Reality, Ile St. Martin-_

Jason Vann was a showman at heart, with a big voice and vast ambitions. Already, he was a household name and face, a fixture on the privileged party circuit. Rich, too, and getting richer.

…And all because of Survival.

The show had catapulted him to the sort of fame and status that ate up whole pages of People magazine and occupied hours of gossipy airtime. You had to stay current, though. Had to keep hustling for the newest edge and brightest sensations, or someone else would come along and seize the public's fancy.

For this reason, Jason Vann constantly scouted new sites for Survival's lair, and new talent to throw at its snapping jaws. For this reason, he never let himself become too close to the cast, no matter how callow or pretty they were.

On their first night at Ile St. Martin, he'd called them all to the group meeting ground, outside of camera range. It was a clearing by the seashore, humbly lit by stars and torches, warmly brushed by wind and spray. His cast… like children or pets, but more expendable… came in from their separate campsites, still tired from the long flight and too-brief unpacking.

Six men and six women, they sidled up, or strode, or undulated (making sexy plays for his attention, which was entertaining, but wouldn't help their case). Fallen palm logs had been arranged in amphitheatre-style rows, and Vann directed his cast to sit thereon. He had no preconceived notions and no favorites; Survival's outcome _had_ to surprise him, or who else would believe it? But, already there were clear signs.

Vance Shafer and Brick Sampson appeared to be jockeying for leadership of the Trojans. Vann gave the edge to neither man, for both looked physically imposing and quite ruthless beneath their handsome exteriors. Among the Amazons, Chandra Rison was a standout, as beautiful and tenacious as Bambi Laughlin was backwater-sweet. But appearances were frequently deceiving, which fact translated to high ratings and large paychecks.

When all were gathered, seated expectantly upon their palm logs (backed by the sea and faced with his fire-lit, stalking form) their host began to speak.

"Folks, welcome to your last peaceful night on St. Martin. Take a good look around at the people you're sitting with. Right now, you're still friends, but keep this in mind: there can only be _one_ winner on Survival. One of you is going home rich and famous. The rest are just… going home. Back to the daycare center, the flower shop, the dental clinic, the garage…"

Vann paused to look at them, gauging the desperate need for escape and success in those beautiful faces and taut young bodies.

"…And maybe the best thing you'll ever have in your tiny, grubby, ordinary lives is right here and now. This is it. This is your chance to remake Paul into Brick, Mary into Bambi, Greg into Cade. This is your chance to escape alarm clocks and bag lunches and discount stores. But, it's all up to you. Play hard and think fast, because everyone else around you… each one of those back-stabbing bastards and sluts… is trying to take what's rightfully yours."

Again, Vann paused, giving his words time to sink in and bite deep. Shaking back his lion's mane of dark-blond hair, he started to pace. With the ocean's grumbling backup, he continued speaking.

"Tomorrow morning, you'll meet your first real challenge; a race and a puzzle. You'll be facing torrents of mud and obstacles, is the most I can tell you for now. Your goal will be to find one of the three pieces of Zeus's Key… and with it directions to a food cache. If a Trojan gets to the Key piece first, then it… and the food… go to the men. If an Amazon comes out on top, then the ladies win both. Last arrivals on both teams are in danger, because I'm holding our first vote immediately after the challenge ends, when the audience reaction is still fresh. _Maybe_ you'll funnel the votes to rid your team of its weakest link. Maybe you'll decide to eliminate someone who looks like a tough competitor. Up to you. But remember… only one of you is going back a winner. Any questions?"

Twelve young men and women shifted about on their rough log seats. One of them, Vance Shafer, raised his hand.

"Go ahead," said Jason, giving the emerging spokesman a quick nod.

"Umm… some of us were wondering… I mean, we haven't eaten since lunch, except for the soy-spam that Ben packed along. So… when's dinner?"

Dark-eyed Vance laughed a little as he asked the question, and the others joined in, nervous but loyal. Jason, however, did not even smile.

"_Dinner_?" he repeated incredulously, as if the young security guard had asked for gold. "I guess it's whenever you work out how to make a fishing line from shoe laces and buttons, or figure out which fruits are safe to eat. Other than that," their host shrugged. "…I guess you'd better win tomorrow, and make sure that _your_ team is the one with the food. Dismissed."

It was going to be a sleepless and hungry night for twelve young competitors, and Bambi Laughlin (with her four remaining sticks of spearmint chewing gum) was about to become very popular.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, in the narrow concrete hall outside of lab 4B-_

Alan didn't lie, exactly… but he pretty much didn't tell the truth, either. Gordon was too friendly with TinTin to be trusted in a raid on her gear, which left Alan with Fermat, who had to be tricked.

"See, all I want to do is get a souvenir. Like, y'know, one of those knight-and-lady thingies. On account of I like her so, um… deeply and junk."

Nice touch, he thought, but Fermat seemed skeptical.

"Uh-huh. _Right._ W- Why not ask her for… a picture, th- then? I'm sure… sh- she'd comply, if properly ap- approached."

Fermat didn't trouble to lower his voice. Thankfully, John had slipped off already (swift and secret as a tomcat) and Gordon was too busy thinking about food to much listen. Always hungry, Gordon Tracy. It was, like, his calling card or something.

"Ask?" Alan demanded, once Gordon had turned the corner up ahead. "Are you nuts, Fermat? This is like, true, un-benighted love; I'm for real. I just want to sneak in there, have a quick look around, find something to, um… cherish… and then get out. All I need you to do is distract her for, like, twenty minutes, tops."

Behind his thick glasses, Fermat's eyebrows rose. He was shorter than Alan and slightly thinner, and his brown hair lay flat instead of being gelled up into blond spikes.

"T- Twenty minutes? _How?_ I c- can't talk… to a girl f- for twenty seconds! Th- They speak a… different whole l- language!"

"I dunno… talk about engineering. Kiss her, or something. Just keep her busy for twenty minutes, even if you have to do a moonlight strip-tease while playing the kazoo. Got it?"

Fermat's jaw dropped. He made a few random sputtering noises that Alan chose to interpret as acceptance.

"Thanks, dude," the older boy told him, patting Fermat's shoulder. "Just give me a few minutes' head start to reach the back of the house, and then go find her. I'll send you a beep on the wrist comm when I'm in position, okay?"

Fermat sighed dejectedly.

"A- Alan, this isn't smart or… honest. Surely, if y- you just _ask…_"

"No. It's got to be a _raided_ souvenir, or it doesn't count. Trust me, Fermat. I know _exactly_ what I'm doing."

…Which was how he wound up blundering through the powdery-scented, silvery dimness of TinTin's room, while upstairs Fermat did his incompetent best to hold a chick's attention (hopefully _without_ taking off his clothes, but, hey, hard times call for sacrifice, etc.).

TinTin Kyrano was the cook's daughter. Her father went by a single name, like many Malays, but the girl used Kyrano as her official last name. (And 'TinTin' wasn't her given moniker, either, but she hated being called Delphine badly enough to throw sharp objects, so 'TinTin' it was.)

Anyways, her room wasn't very big. There was just barely more than one chamber, if you counted the walk-in closet and small bathroom. But otherwise, his explorations were limited to a TV and sleeping area, plus the outside balcony. Like he'd said before, not very big. She didn't lock anything, either, which would have given John fits, but certainly made life easier for Alan.

The boy snuck in using his crazy-cool ninja skills, gliding through shadows and stuff. He'd brought along a gym bag to pile his acquisitions in, but looked around first to see what held the most grateful-chica value.

Okay, um… stuffed animals on the bed, with a blue teddy bear perched in a special place of honor at her pillow. Sheesh… girls and their toys, y'know? The rug was sort of flowery, like the curtains and bed cover. The walls were cream-colored, and there were ornate iron bars at all the windows, but not on the balcony doors.

Gazing around himself in wonder and disgust, Alan drifted over to TinTin's chest of drawers, which had a mirror on top, and lots of shiny, frilly bottles, cushions and jewelry. Tons of pink ribbon and satin hearts and… _whoa._ Hold on, there.

Alan did a double-take as a gilded-looking digital picture frame shifted its image from one of TinTin's school friends to a shot of her, Gordon and Alan at dad's private beach in Tahiti. T was in the middle, with an arm around both laughing boys. Gordon was squinting slightly in the sunshine, looking all freckly and junk. Alan was doing his best to appear super-spy cool and (he had to admit) failing miserably. Dang, he looked chubby in pictures! Thank goodness for Photoshop...

It was a short video-clip, actually, with the sea roaring and frothing behind them, literally shaking the ground, and Gordon's surfboard slanting toward the dark sand. His brother (whenever he thought those words, Alan usually meant Gordon. The others were brothers… small 'b'… Gordon was his Brother and friend.) Anyhow, his brother at one and the same time roughly mussed Alan's sea-flattened hair and kissed TinTin's cheek. She squealed and smacked him, kind of playfully, and that was the end of the clip. The image shifted then to a very young, long-haired John, looking annoyed about something, and then to a grinning Fermat and… Hey, howdy, _whoa!_ Virgil? She had a romantically-fuzzed picture of _Virgil?_ Heh! Big, quiet, piano-tinkling Virgil… the secret object of T's imaginings? Who'd a thunk it?

Well, score another point for the ever-growing pile of Stuff He Could Later Use. The image shifted in Alan's hands, melting into a short clip of Gordon climbing out of the pool. Strong, laughing, _honest_ Gordon.

Suddenly uneasy, Alan put the digital picture frame back on T's desk. All at once, coming in here didn't seem like such a good idea. Like, this was her private space… her crucial junk… all she had of her own in the whole Tracy mansion, and he was planning to loot and pillage like a dang pirate. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe winning time with some curvaceous Survival cutie wasn't worth losing a real friend?

Coming to a decision, Alan zipped his empty gym bag shut and headed out the door. Not a second too soon, either, for he could hear voices up the hall; TinTin's suspicious and seething, Fermat's desperately pleading.

"S- Seriously, TinTin! In m- my father's lab is… a g- great discovery! Y- You'll be… enthralled by the implications of… liberated quark ph- physics!"

"Non!" the girl hissed, as Alan fled away round the corner. "I will be no longer delayed, nor kept awake, Fermat! I have not the concussion and there is no reason to expect une fete-surprise, so kindly be off and allow me to rest! I am required by Monsieur Tracy himself, in the morning!"

Alan didn't listen any further, too busy hurrying upstairs to find Gordon and work out a Plan B.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere-_

The ocean was a surging dark, restless thing at night, its waves marching in white-maned rows across a thousand miles of open water. Below, the sea floor was darker still, and deeply uneasy. The Pacific plate was moving, of course, but not symmetrically. The northern half crept fractionally faster than did the southern Pacific plate and this difference was enough to shift, rend and weaken. Here and there, rock buckled and magma probed, seeking a way upward. But the time was not yet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, early next morning-_

It was a tired Jeff, inclined to be snappish and grim, who met with Virgil and TinTin at the airstrip. He hadn't slept much, being on the phone most of the night, and all he wanted to hear from anyone was _'yes, sir!'_ and _'how high?'_ Scott had seen him off earlier with a handshake and a promise to mind the store. Kyrano had brought in a sumptuous breakfast of ham, eggs, fresh bread and hot coffee, which he'd left mostly untouched. There was far too much on Jeff Tracy's mind to allow space for the simple comfort of food.

He wanted _action,_ damn it! As in that rotten, invasive camera crew the hell off of what was about to become his property, if John could be trusted to handle negotiations. At any rate, things were happening on this end, and in the legal circles overseen by Leisha Bonaventure, but he meant to do more. He meant to take the fight to Ile St. Martin… if only Virgil would speed up the business of backing his Lear Jet out of its cliffside hangar.

The day was a bright one; loud with stabbing sunshine, pounding surf, engine noise and the raucous calling of birds. He wanted a dim, climate-controlled cabin and a stiff drink. He wanted to be airborne and planning, not scowling on the tarmac beside young TinTin.

"It is a very much beautiful day," she ventured, needlessly.

"Very," Jeff grunted, too impatient to be entirely civil. He had difficulty with conversations that didn't lead to money, conquest or rescue.

"I am persuaded that they will be most surprised and pleased to receive us upon L'Ile St. Martin, Monsieur Tracy."

Jeff turned his gaze from the slowly-backing white bulk of his Lear, to TinTin. She was a pretty thing and, like most young girls, extremely talkative. Wasn't she about due to return to that Parisian female academy?

TinTin flushed beneath Jeff Tracy's stern, brown-eyed regard.

"I am terribly sorry, Monsieur. It was impolite for me to ramble so, when you have the many important tasks to plan."

Jeff sighed, then sought for and unpacked a smile.

_"Yes,_ I'm busy and preoccupied. _No,_ you weren't rambling and _please,_ keep further conversation to necessary specifics. We have work to do, all of us."

The Lear had backed its way into a broad roundabout, where Virgil could turn it to face the ocean. The plane's boarding hatch dropped and its engine noise rose to a wild shriek, which was probably a good thing, for Jeff didn't much feel like talking. Instead, he felt like a short flight, and a good fight.


	6. 6: Stratagem

Thanks for the review, ED.

**6: Stratagem**

_Reality, a tropical evening on Ile St. Martin-_

The twelve competitors had walked a little way from their meeting site in bleak, uneasy silence. Jason Vann's words were poisonous, causing a sudden rash of reassessment and nervous glances. At the point where their stony dirt path diverged… the left-hand way leading to the Trojans' camp, the right wending along the shoreline to the Amazons'… Brick Sampson stopped the others.

"Look," he said, his handsome face genuinely earnest in the rising moonlight, "I know this is a contest, and it's gotta be every man or woman for themselves… but I also know who I flew out here with, who I roomed with at the hotel, and ate dinner with. Yeah, I'm gonna fight you, and I'm gonna fight to win… but I'm also gonna fight fair."

The young man looked around at his companions; five men and six women just as puzzled and jittery as he was. But they were listening, all of them, so Brick (Paul, really) went on.

"Thing is, I've gotta believe that you're gonna do the same. That we can play this game _our_ way. Not…" (Brick jerked his head in the direction of the meeting ground and the anchored production company yacht.) "Not _theirs."_

Ling Smith was next to stand forth. She was a multi-cultural beauty; part Thai, part rest-of-the-world, all sinuous hottie. In a serious voice at odds with her Mata-Hari looks, she said,

"I agree with Brick. If we can't do this properly, then there's little point in playing. When I win…" (There were plenty of hoots and good-natured insults, here.) "…_when _I win, I will do it with a clear conscience."

Others… Chandra, Ben, Peyton and the rest… expressed their own opinions, mostly backing up Brick and Ling, or predicting their own success. Meanwhile, a smiling Bambi cut apart and distributed her chewing gum. There might not have been much, but everyone had a taste, the spearmint somehow mingling with sea air, moonlight and growling stomachs to forever mark this moment.

But Jason Vann had microphones everywhere, and he was listening. As he raced across the bay at the wheel of his speed boat, the _Survival_ host smiled.

_'They always start out innocent and loyal,'_ Vann chuckled to himself. _'Cute, really… until they get desperate.'_

He was that sure of himself, Jason was. After all, his business was high ratings, and ratings demanded conflict.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, later the next morning-_

Between one thing and another, Jeff Tracy was slower to leave his Pacific island paradise than he would have liked. Virgil detected a problem with a fuel gauge that required wheeling out the _other_ Lear… John called to let him know that France's asking price for Ile St. Martin was several orders of magnitude higher than his first bid… Leisha Bonaventure left a message indicating that, so far, _Survival's_ legal paperwork appeared utterly perfect (down to the font)… and Alan showed up with Gordon and a package, evidently for TinTin. Somewhere in the midst of all this, Lady Penelope called in to Island Base, announcing that she was on final approach from Tahiti.

This last made Jeff smile as he settled into his leather seat with a laptop and a brimming cappuccino. He was a man who liked a good chase for high stakes, and while he hadn't yet "caught" the beautiful, flirtatious blonde, Jeff Tracy was utterly confident that someday soon, he would.

So he bade Scott and Kyrano make her welcome… John to raise the offer… and Bonaventure to keep looking for legal loopholes, right back to the Code of Hammurabi, if she had to. As his plane took off and banked out over the deep blue Pacific, Jeff sipped coffee, typed messages, and readied himself for action.

Meantime, Alan hung around on the tarmac, hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts while Gordon recharged their little transport cart. With Lady P coming in, bringing tons of servants and baggage, the poor cart had to be well topped off and powered up.

Gordon seemed edgy, but then, he was always a little nervous around Penny (class or something, even though Alan had tried explaining to him, _"Dude, you're __American__. You were born in, like, Kansas, or something. Get over it!")_ A lifetime in Europe had totally confused the guy, for real.

To cheer him up, and because the sunny-warm day was just about California beautiful, Alan sauntered over to the recharge station, calling,

"Hey, bro… I got it!"

Gordon straightened from plugging in the cart's power cord, his red hair all copper and gold in the sunshine, his tropical shirt insanely loud.

"Contagious, is it?" he asked, side-stepping Alan's exuberant punch. Gordon couldn't afford to get sick. Not with the season's first major swim meet just a fortnight off.

"No, stupid! It's a song, not a disease."

Alan grinned at him, in a good mood because his older brother's idea for a _Survival_ food and candy-gram had been pretty clever. Somewhere under all that muscle and appetite, there was an actual _brain._

"I've got dad's theme song! The Tracy Island National Anthem! Listen up,"

Ignoring his brother's head-shake, Alan struck a pose; standing erect and tall, with one hand over his heart. Then, he began to sing:

_"My country, tis of he, sweet Isle of Jeff Tracy,_

_Of he I sing…!_

_Land of the T-Birds pride, land where his sons reside,_

_From ev-er-eeee mountain-side, let money ring…!"_

Score! Gordon actually hit the ground, he was laughing so hard. Scraped himself on the cart going down and cursed about it, because those scratches were going to sting like crap in the pool, but then he made Alan teach him the whole dang song. They were well into the second verse, loud and boisterous, by the time Lady P touched down.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_St. Martin-_

Their challenge began at the eastern foot of densely wooded Mt. Tonga. It was to be a relay and obstacle race, with teammates strung along at various points on the slope. Mud there was, in great quantities, together with relatively painless snares and pitfalls, but no real path. The competitors would have to find their own way to the next waiting player, then hand over a big plastic token, and hope that theirs was the first group to reach the top, where rested Zeus's key (whatever that was).

Bambi Laughlin (don't call her Mary, please… not on camera) was first runner for the Amazons. She stood in leaf-filtered sunlight, slapping at insects and clutching a red plastic disk, smiling for the cameras and listening for the signal, which hadn't been clearly described.

She was a pretty good dental hygienist, cute and personable, and her friends had said, _"Go on, Mary… audition! What have you got to lose?"_ So, here she was in a tropical jungle, ready to try like anything for the brass ring.

Well, the slope wasn't too steep, but mired in mud and undergrowth and creepy things (which was really weird, if you came from Duluth). She'd been told nothing at all about where the next Amazon was, except "_uphill_" and _"there will be_ _clues_". Naturally, Bambi was nervous, ready to throw up the banana and handful of cold rice she'd had for breakfast. Then… _BOOM!_ From somewhere offshore, the starting cannon roared alive.

She surged up and forward before the echoes had time to fade, aware that somewhere out there, Grant Bryce was doing the same thing. Fast as she could, Bambi sloshed, grabbed, scrambled and ducked, quickly learning that the camera crew tended to slow down and stand off in the vicinity of a trap.

The second trip wire… thank goodness she leapt sideways instead of backward… triggered open a slime-filled pit that nearly ended her race, but Bambi caught hold of a branch and saved herself. It was a very near thing, full of slips and flailing, inspiring the cameramen to applaud her. Bambi flashed them a quick grin and thumbs-up, then scooped up her dropped token and ran on.

The clues turned out to be "golden" apples, scattered here and there amid tangled roots and sucking mud. Rush from one to the next, panting in the wet-hot air and inhaling great clouds of gnats, and you'd finally reach your teammate.

But how much time had she lost? Catching sight of tense, eager Chandra, Bambi poured on a last burst of speed… and failed to notice a well-hidden electric eye trap that someone had set up between tree roots.

A camouflaged net sprang up from beneath the mud and leaves, scooping Bambi off the ground in a swaying, bouncing, shrieking tangle of limbs, hair and branches. Chandra started toward her but Bambi worked a hand free of the constricting net, waited until her teammate spun back into view and then threw her the red plastic token.

"Keep going!" she screamed, refusing to be the reason they didn't win.

"But…" Chandra would have thrown everything away to climb up there and cut Bambi lose, and the cameras loved every minute of it.

"Chandra, _no!_ You've got to keep going! I'll be okay!"

The other girl nodded reluctantly, biting her full lower lip. Clutching their token, she called…

"I'll come back just as soon as I've handed off, Bambi; I promise!"

…and then darted onward, pursued by that omnipresent camera crew. Stuck in midair, Bambi felt like crying, but at least she hadn't failed the team. At least she'd completed her bit of the challenge.

All for nothing, as a Tracy Aerospace business jet cut through the skies in mid-race, ruining the shoot and forcing a delay while snares were repositioned and trapped contestants retrieved. Jason Vann was furious. Off camera, meeting with a blandly superior Jeff Tracy, he snapped,

"Have you _any_ idea how much money and time your little visit has cost this production?"

"About five minutes' worth of my daily income?" Jeff guessed, looking bored (but only on the surface; inside he was prickling-keen to fight).

"At least a hundred-thousand dollars!" Vann raged, with hard eyes and mussed hair.

"Sorry about that… only three minutes' worth. But all that's beside the point, Mr. Vence."

_"Vann._ My name is Jason Vann, and you're trespassing!"

Jeff swooped in like a grey-haired corporate shark.

"Not for long, Mr. Vence. My people are in negotiations to buy the entire damn island, at which point, you and all of your B-list hopefuls will be squatting on _my_ property."

There was more in this vein, but Virgil was too embarrassed to listen, and TinTin too distracted. Alan (that everlasting annoyance) had thrust a package upon her before takeoff, urging the girl to deliver it to one of the _Survival_ contestants, most of who were gathered about in various stages of bruised disrepair.

_"Bambi,"_ he'd whispered, tugging at her arm, _"Give this to Bambi, and tell her it's from her secret island __hero__."_

How, pray tell, did each time she considered Alan to have reached the absolute nadir of silly behavior... how did he find a way to squirm lower? Not content with setting Fermat to delay and distract her the night before, _now_ Alan expected her to deliver impassioned love notes? Containing, no doubt, his signed photograph and life story?

Well… at least the matter could be swiftly seen to, leaving her time to bask in the presence of Virgil. TinTin scanned the clearing from behind his broad, blue-shirted back. One amid the gathered contestants was the woman Alan sought, the oddly named 'Bambi'. Scraped, abraded and dirty, still the disheveled blonde seemed adorably sweet and worried.

TinTin gave Virgil's muscular arm a gentle squeeze, and then left him alone with Jeff and Vann while she trudged off to deliver a package.

"Bonjour, Madame," the girl whispered, ducking her head slightly in the older woman's presence. "I am TinTin, and I have been sent by another to bring you _this."_

So saying, TinTin thrust the lumpy, paper-wrapped parcel at Bambi Laughlin, who accepted it with a whisper of, "thank you," and a puzzled smile. Was she allowed to receive outside help, Bambi wondered? And, hungry as they all were, could she afford not to?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

It was most difficult and tedious, trying to conduct an affaire between phone calls, missions and company business. Penelope had slipped from travel garb into resort wear, looking coolly beautiful, well-bred and securely moneyed. Unfortunately, very little of this mattered to John.

Leaving Parker and Elspeth behind to finish arranging her quarters, Penny slipped off beyond the lower pool deck, where he'd earlier promised to meet her, provided _'nothing came up'._ Well and good… but it was precisely her aim to ensure that something did, in a manner of speaking, come up.

Letting herself out through a creaking iron gate, Penny encountered John Tracy in a relatively secluded wall alcove flanked by potted rubber trees and flowering vines. He'd brought his wretched laptop and set it up at a wrought iron patio table, hard at work, even now. There was a row of beer bottles arranged just so across the surface beside his computer, lined up and ready. Two empties were positioned beneath the table, which (like the alcove) faced out to sea.

"Hello, darling," she murmured, when he did not immediately notice her well-planned and expensively scented approach.

"Hmm…? Oh, Penny. Hey."

John tapped a key, minimized whatever he'd had on screen, then stood up to greet her and pull out a chair. That was something, at least.

He was a tall young Adonis, her paramour, blond and almost painfully handsome in his NASA polo shirt and khaki trousers. Barefooted, though, as he'd sometime kicked off a pair of leather boat shoes.

The iron chair scraped across stone tiles and fallen leaves, ready to be sat upon, but Penelope leaned over, instead, and kissed him. Her lips traced a soft line from his mouth to cheek, moving onward to briefly nip at an ear.

"Cameras off, I hope?"

"Yeah," John replied, slipping an arm about her slim waist. "The perimeter's just experienced a thirty-minute power anomaly."

Then, smiling a little, he added,

"…But I'm on it."

"I see."

He tasted of sun and lager, looked and felt utterly heavenly.

"Terribly preoccupied, are you?" Penny whispered, cuddling close and running her fingertips along the back of his neck in that way she knew that he liked.

"Sort of," John admitted, halting in mid-caress to glance at his laptop screen, which gave a sudden, ill-tempered flash. "Just working out a few designs with Hackenbacker, and buying an island."

"Delightful."

Very gently, she moved against John and raised a hand to stroke his face.

"And shall we have an assignation spot, there? As they say in America, 'a place of our own'?"

Blame Penelope, then, for putting the thought in his head.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Far beneath the Pacific's unquiet surface, at one of many stress points, a small fissure rumbled open. Hot gasses plumed forth; black and sulfurous, laden with dissolved gold and explosive methane.

There were a number of seismic sensors in the region, but two were corroded beyond repair and one had drifted free of its rusted mooring. The other detected a slight shift in the crust, but couldn't triangulate location, alone. Its water-chemistry instrument tasted subterranean gas and would have reported it… had the transmission array not been snapped short many years earlier by a derelict fishing net.

Long story short, neither International Rescue, nor the Pacific Rim Alert Centre received immediate word of what was stirring, down below.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, Lab 4B-_

After Jeff, Virgil and TinTin returned from St. Martin, Alan managed to sidle up to the girl and hiss,

_"Well…? Didja give it to her? Didja?"_

TinTin rolled her dark eyes, and Alan found himself with a sudden, powerful urge to visit the bathroom. Dang! What a time for the Earth to move, huh?

Anyways, yeah… the parcel got delivered (he found out later), though Bambi didn't look inside right away. Not a problem, really, 'cause it would be major, maxi-mondo cool if she opened his package and read the note on camera. Like, at this point, even if he _died_, Alan would have found a way to tune in to the show from beyond the grave.

Now, though, he had important _manly_ stuff to do, with a friend and two brothers. Or, one and a half, anyway. He almost had to write Male Elf out of this session, but John showed up eventually (late but obscurely serene).

Fermat was in charge of the food that night, so it was mostly Twinkies, chocolate milk and carrot sticks, dang the luck. Not like you could order out for pizza, though. Not from Tracy Island.

Alan tried rolling his dice across the back of one arm and down the other, like basketball players sometimes do, but all he got for his trouble was a clattering shower of d-20s on concrete. Great. Nice move.

Fermat snorted rudely, but John failed to notice, only muttering…

"Got it!"

…at his open laptop, which started Gordon and Alan humming the Tracy Island National Anthem, again. Private joke. _Any_ways…

"Male Elf," Alan said, once he'd sobered enough to talk. "You've arrived at the Crossroads Tavern in lower Meretown. Not much has changed since the last time you were here. It's a two-storey stone building with a badly thatched roof and a walled flagstone courtyard littered with hay and roosting chickens. There are two big chimneys, both of them going full blast. Through the leaded, bottle-glass windows, you see moving silhouettes and glowing firelight. The night air is getting cold and you're sort of peckish, so you…?"

Asked John, not bothering to steal someone's dice for a spot check,

"Do I detect any trouble?"

His character, like Gordon's, was exceptionally good at the 'tingling Spider-Sense' thing (except when drunk, or in a hurry). Alan hadn't had any special plans for courtyard disaster, but he rolled anyway, because you just never know.

_A one and three… saved by the wimpy roll._

"Nope. Sorry, bro. Nothing's moving but a few late chickens, and a Halfling manservant carrying wood for the fires."

"Okay," John decided, after tapping out a message and hitting _return._ "Before going in, I'll find a patch of light in a reasonably secure location and have a look at my new acquisition." He'd been surprised with cursed items once or twice, before.

"Uh-huh…" Alan frowned over his hex map, finally spotting a sort of alley between the tavern's main building and outhouse. "Sure thing. About twenty paces away, to your right and across the yard, there's a badly tended lane between the tavern and outhouse. The cheap rooms overlook it, so there's light, but nobody could make out what goes on below without a _clearsight_ spell."

John grunted. Actually for once hungry enough to eat something, he snagged and unwrapped a Twinkie, saying,

"What else is in there?"

"Uh… let's see, here… some upended crates, a few smashed bottles, pee-stains galore, and a family of scruffy cats."

Hidden enough for secret business, so Male Elf opted to enter the alley. One of the Bright or Woodland sort would have despised the place, but he'd seen far worse.

Finding a relatively clean box to sit on, he pushed his left sleeve up to examine the oddly mobile copper tattoo… except that it squirmed away from even the 'cheap' windows' faint, color-shot light. Experimentally, Male Elf shoved his tunic sleeve a little higher, only to have the tattoo slither right through his prickling flesh to the upper arm. Interesting.

"You're a puzzle," he murmured aloud, feeling the thing settle into a braceleting ring above his left elbow. What if it took a notion to wrap his neck and squeeze? Clearly, it wasn't going to show itself willingly, and if not to _him,_ still less so to Frodle.

"I don't suppose you're friendly," Male Elf hazarded, replacing his linen sleeve. The snake tattoo glided lower at once, leaving a warm trail all the way to his wrist. Weird… but not immediately dangerous, so he decided not to mention the incident.

"What…?" Alan cut in, exasperated. "But you've _got_ to consult Frodle! It's in the dang game plan!"

John shook his head.

"No, I don't. For one thing, I can't prove that it's there without some kind of immobilizing spell. Then, even if Frodle gets a look, there's no guarantee he can magic it off. On top of that, I'd have to explain how it got there or lie to the others. No thanks; hidden it stays."

Mostly, though, he just liked messing with the game plan. Alan was sure of it.

"Look," the boy argued hotly, "all you've gotta do is go up to Frodle and kind of hint around. He's sharp enough to…"

"I'd f- figure things… out f- for you, John," Fermat interrupted earnestly. "I've g- got a big tome, a staff and a lens of… far-seeing, remember?"

"Or y' might consider…" Gordon began.

But again, John blocked progress, silencing the others with a quick, downward chopping gesture.

"No. And don't try to force my hand, either. The more baloney you stack in this bullshit sandwich, the less likely I am to bite. I'll figure things out quietly, all on my own. End of story."

He meant it, too. Sometimes there was just no reasoning with John, whose male-model looks disguised nothing but steel and circuitry.

"Fine!" Alan groused, mentally re-writing the plot. "You go inside to locate Frodle and hoist a tankard. Blah, blah, blah, whatever. _Meanwhile…"_

The deeply aggrieved dungeon master brightened again as he turned to face Gordon.

"Can Sir Gawain handle serious battle wounds, an injured horse _and… _a tree nymph in deep distress?"


	7. 7: Wild Things

**7: Wild Things**

_Lab 4B, at an on-going RPG-_

Gordon Tracy was confused, but willing. As a Cross Knight, his character should have avoided such natural spirits as Nymphs and Dryads, but as a man, Gawain of Espan had an eye for a pretty face; pagan or not. Naturally, Alan was aware of this and plotted accordingly, making sneaky decisions with lightning-like rolls of the dice of doom… or something.

"Okay, dude," said the dungeon master, "you and your horse have, like, seen better days. You've made it through Kesh, and the landscape's shifted from verminous bog to, like… what's that biome crap Ms. Prat is always spouting off about…? Oh, yeah… savanna. You're in the Great Plains, bro. The horse is physically healed, but tired, and so are you."

Indeed. Trudging afoot through an everlasting sameness of tall grass and tree-clumps, Gawain had all he could do to keep moving. Much of his remaining strength had gone into healing St. George of a demon steed's ice-cold bite. The magic had worked, but neither of them was left with much, and Falkirk lay many long hours away.

Around noon, lulled by St. George's clopping hooves and fly-swishing tail, Gawain followed the path through a large copse of storm-damaged trees; oak, ash and thorn, mostly. He might have stopped for rest, but there was an air of sorrow about the place, as though the snapped trunks and torn branches around him felt actual pain.

The path dipped somewhat, leading at length to a pool of clear water. Shallow, floored in golden leaves and dark stone, the pond lay cupped like a gem in its wooded hollow. St. George's white ears swiveled forward and his nostrils flared. He snorted, stretching his big head on its proudly curved neck. Clearly, a drink would be appreciated, and probably safe, as well. St. George had a feel for such things.

Gawain patted the horse's flank by way of approval, then stepped forward and dropped to one knee at the pool's edge beside the loudly sucking and blowing animal. Leaning over, he scooped out a handful of water for himself. Cupped hand and captured water had not quite reached his mouth when the young knight became aware of a personage, standing ankle deep in the clear pool and staring at him. A Nymph, of beauty wild and inhuman.

Her naked skin was pale green and lightly tattooed and her long, trailing hair changed color from emerald to silver with each gust of wind. Her eyes were deep, velvet-brown, holding things that should have driven Sir Gawain to cross himself and hasten away, Yet, such natural spirits had always fascinated him, lingering as they did from an earlier age.

Letting the water drip back to its pool un-tasted, the knight stood up.

"Beggin' your pardon, Milady," he said, addressing not just the Nymph, but the enormous ash behind her, "it wasn't my intention t' steal. We'll be off, if 'tis better so."

The Nymph blinked and then shifted her stance, relaxing a bit. Such beings rarely spoke, for their words carried the force of an oracle. She pointed, though, from Gawain to a snapped and dying young tree; hardly more than a sapling, it was, leaning parallel to the ground close beside him.

Gawain examined the slim ash, whose pointed leaves had gone brittle yellow about their edges. It had received its death-wound right enough, too slender to withstand the wind's force, but too thick to easily bend. The Nymph drew closer, her expression sweetly, terribly sad. Her daughter, into whom she'd placed much of her own life force, was dying.

Well… he'd repaired broken limbs and ravaged flesh before, though admittedly not those of a tree. Still, invoked by a minor goddess, Gawain made ready to try.

As St. George lifted his dripping muzzle from the pool, the knight set about straightening a young tree. Carefully, one hand close to the break, the other farther along the sapling's silver-green trunk, he raised its drooping crown and held all fifteen feet in place. St. George, meanwhile, wandered off to crop newly-sprung wild rose and woodbine.

A knight's ability to heal came from genuine desire, a good heart, and peace with his deity… but it also required strength, something Gawain was perilously short of, just then. He braced the young tree and concentrated, seeking deep within himself for that which simply wasn't there. He had help, though.

The Nymph reached forward and placed a lightly-patterned green hand upon his. Her touch was somehow quickening, like a mouthful of spiced brandy or a freshly-brewed potion. Something strong and fierce coursed through him, and Gawain knew what it was to feel time race past, glaciers melt and spring return. Power filled him, and all at once the slim tree was healed clean. More, it began to flower.

"Fancy that," Gawain remarked, smiling at Nymph and sapling, "atop all else, I'm a gardener."

The Nymph did not smile, but perhaps her kind could not. Instead, she pressed her hand a little harder to his, warming it. Then she spoke, and her voice was the rustle of leaves and the soft rattle of falling seeds.

_"Go in peace, Sir Knight, with our thanks. The way before is long and perilous, but there are those who will watch for_ _you in wood, cavern_ _and spring."_

Somehow, gripped bymagic, it was early morning when Gawain and St. George trotted free of that magical wood. But Midworld was a spell-haunted place, and such encounters were not uncommon.

"W- What about… _me?"_ Fermat cut in, suddenly. "If M- Male Elf has… just w- walked inside with a p- possibly… intelligent, magical item… s- surely, I'll pick up on… the change in h- his aura!"

Very badly, the young genius wanted a crack at that snake-thing, and Alan was more than willing to give him a chance.

"Okey-doke," the dungeon master responded, switching his attention from Gordon to Fermat. "Male Elf enters the tavern, attracting not much notice because of his, like, dark-elf stealthiness skills (which are nothing, compared to mine). _You_ catch on, because you've been expecting him and he's headed for your table. What do you do?"

Fermat scrunched up a Twinkie wrapper and pitched it into the trash can, thinking hard.

"F- First," the boy decided, "I'll l- look him… over. How d- does he… appear?"

"Like everyone else; through the door," Alan joked, scarfing some food before getting back to business. Fun-time over with, he tossed the dice.

"Umm… he's quiet, unresponsive and sullen. Same as always… which, come to think of it, is a downright sunny personality for a dark-elf. Dude must've been the life of the party, down there."

Said John, actually smiling a little,

"I'd say they're looking forward to renewing our acquaintance, yeah."

…to the point of posting a bounty. Life's little ups and downs, huh?

Fermat wasn't through, though.

"W- What about his… aura? Do I detect any s- sinister magicks?"

Hoping like heck, Alan rolled again.

"No luck," the dungeon master sighed, after three separate tosses. "He's got so much high-level stuff on him… the curse powder, those swords, a dark cloak and the bottomless flask… that nothing of, um… the tattoo-thingy's type would stand out. All you can tell is he's cranky and magical. Sorry, dude."

"B- Bet it's a familiar," Fermat guessed, watching Alan closely for a change of expression. The older boy's round-cheeked face remained bland as a baby's, though. (Hey, John wasn't the only one who could clamp down on a secret.)

Fermat tapped one of his gem-blue dice on the metal table, beating a rhythm as restless as his own thoughts.

"I'll f- figure it out," he said, challengingly, "B- Before you… tell the others, too. Watch me."

But Alan thought,

_'I'm ready, dude. Game on.'_

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_Ile St. Martin-_

With the day lost for competition, both teams had been instructed to build huts for themselves from available materials. _Not_ as easy as it sounded, because palm fronds and fiber rope weren't very cooperative, even for a former Campfire Girl like Peyton Spence. This, and an unceasing horde of insects made a merry hash of construction efforts (especially if you were trying to build on camera and look good, doing it).

Peyton was cute rather than beautiful, and a little older than the rest. She was a natural leader, too; the only one who'd thought to bring first aid supplies and water-cleansing tablets. (Funnily enough, she was the only natural blonde.)

At any rate, Peyton-from-Oregon managed to direct her Amazon teammates in the building of a saggy, dispirited-looking hovel. When it was finished, and the women gathered in the clearing to examine their handiwork, Ling Smith quipped,

"Pray for good weather."

The hut was up on stilts (sort of) and open on one side because the show's contract specified constant, round-the-clock access. The ladies had done their best to screen the opening with long, drooping banana leaves and a cleverly placed vine, but their doings would still be as public as a webcast. Life online; all day, all the time.

Not a good situation, but night was coming on, and there remained fruit to collect and wood to gather, to say nothing of water from the spring. You had to think of everything, when other people depended on you.

Scratching at a mosquito bite, Peyton said,

"Mariana, why don't you grab one of those bags and scrounge up some dinner. Nothing under-ripe, and keep an eye out for traps; they can nail us between competitions, too. It's in the contract.

"Ling, if you don't mind, get some reasonably dry wood while we've still got a little sun."

Peyton had a strategy: flame-glow would interfere with the _Survival_ crew's night cams, while a regular lens would be blind outside the firelight's reach. Or, so she hoped.

"Blyss, we're going to need water. If you'll get it tonight, I'll go tomorrow morning."

Already, Peyton had become something of a den-mother, and her teammates accepted her lead. The three girls she'd called upon set off about their errands, leaving Bambi, Chandra and Peyton at the campsite. Plus the camera crew, but one learned to work around them.

Very quietly, under cover of moving the rice pot back onto the coals, Peyton asked,

"What's in the package, Bambi?"

Just as softly, sheltered from view by Chandra's sleek form, Bambi replied,

"I haven't really looked through it, yet, but the note was kind of sweet." With a nervous smile, the dental hygienist added, "Looks like I've got a fan,"

"Or a crazed stalker with a sick fixation on perfect teeth," Chandra put in. She had porcelain caps, herself. "I sure hope he sent food, though, because I'm sick to death of rice and bananas!"

There was one place the three women could go and be reasonably certain of privacy, and that was the campsite's latrine. On various pretexts, they slipped off to the tree-screened shed; Peyton and Chandra with cleaning supplies, Bambi with her secret admirer's loosely-wrapped package.

"Well…?" Peyton nudged, craning over Bambi's shoulder for a glimpse at the treasure. "What does your stalker send, besides his love?"

Bambi giggled and sped up the process of tearing through paper and string.

"Um… Spam, tuna fish, crackers, some pictures, a package of gummy bears and… bless his _heart_… about a dozen blueberry Pop-Tarts! It's food, all right."

Enough for one night's full bellies and decent sleep… or partial comfort for all. Said Chandra, fondling the Spam can,

"We should give half to the boys. After all, they know we got something, and I trust Brick. If someone sent _him_ food and candy, he'd share it with us."

Peyton thought about it a moment, her blue-grey eyes a little wistful. Then, she nodded.

"I agree, but the food is Bambi's and it's up to her."

Bambi Laughlin looked from one to the other… from pre-med student to daycare worker… and made up her mind.

"You're right," she decided. "As soon as Mariana and them get back, let's draw straws to take some of this stuff to the boys' camp… but _quietly_, so you-know-who doesn't find out."

A sensible precaution, had 'you-know-who' not already been moving, and with more resources than six aspiring starlets could hope to overcome. As it happened, Jason Vann had already sent forth a small strike team, with orders to "Stir things up a little bit."

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_Lab 4B, the game-_

Fermat Hackenbacker was nothing if not persistent. While Alan took Gordon through the Falkirk encounter, Fermat consulted his PDA's online gaming resource. Somewhere in there lay a reference to snake-like, tattoo-turning, coppery magical items. Between _Familiars_ and _Gelatinous Cubes_, perhaps, or _Masamune_ and _Metal Slimes…_

All that muttering and energy made Alan snicker, because it was uber-cool to see his buddies and brothers pulling their hair out. _Heh!_ Tickled peachy, Alan redoubled his efforts at vexing poor, blameless Sir Gawain.

"Okay, so once you've shaken off the nymph's deep-time spell, you come to your full senses to find yourself riding over a low hill. Falkirk lies ahead, big and square as a grey Lego-house. It's late afternoon, so you've been blinked through a couple of days, at least."

Gordon rested his chin in his hands, visualizing Alan's description and frowning.

"Must've passed through th' town unawares. Not cast forward much, was I?" he inquired, dreading to find himself a hundred years in the future, or something equally bothersome.

Alan merely shrugged, bouncing the dice from one hand to the other with a wicked little smirk.

"Dunno, brother-man. Guess you'll just have to ride in there and find out."

"But, everythin' looks the same, does it? Lord Morcar's banner crowns th' tower, still?"

"Um… hang on a sec… yeah. The ol' Sword-n-Raven yet waves, and, uh… yup. The gates are open. No signs of smoke or decay, but there's a serf and his dog herding a flock of sheep into the fortress. What now, dude?"

Gordon smiled and straightened in his chair. Miming the act of smoothing a long moustache, he said,

"Just a touch here and again t' spruce up a bit, and then make what show I can, ridin' into the fortress."

Not that Sir Gawain was an infrequent (or especially welcome) sight. Not to Lord Morcar, at least. Anelle was another matter. No sooner had the big, red-haired knight ridden through her father's gates than 16-year-old Anelle cried out like a child, dropped her embroidery and raced from her sitting room balcony; a scented whirlwind of raised skirts, flashing feet and streaming hair.

Three times his name was called, with varying degrees of warmth. While serfs, freeholders and craftsmen doffed their caps or curtsied… while geese honked and sheep blatted… Lord Morcar rumbled,

"Gawain."

And Father Arnolde boomed,

"Gawain, lad! You've returned!"

None of that mattered, however, not when the owner of his heart and service had raced from the high stone keep, calling,

"Sir Gawain! You've come! Did I not say it! Did I not say to my nurse this very _morn_ that surely today you'd come!"

He was out of the saddle and making ready to kneel on the cobblestones, but Anelle prevented him.

"Stand, Sir Knight," the dark-haired beauty commanded, smiling like a newly-dawned sunrise. "I would see what prize you've brought me, from all your wanderings."

Anelle was slim and straight. She had dark hair that rippled to her waist, and bright green eyes, curious and alert as a kitten's. She wore an overdress of claret velvet with pale silk beneath and fur at the hem. Expectantly breathless, the girl waited, but he'd quite failed to bring her a gift, having quested in vain, this time.

Still, Gawain put a hand into the pouch at his leather belt, hoping to find some forgotten trinket or sweet, therein. It was the hand that the Nymph had touched, the one he'd healed her daughter with, and now unexpectedly, it warmed and filled.

Startled, Gawain pulled his hand forth from the pouch. Unclenching his fingers, the knight blinked and did his best to seem unsurprised. On the flat of his left palm there rested an emerald, beautifully polished and shot through with glints of silver, like the underside of an unfurling leaf.

Wordlessly, he held the beautiful thing out, offering it to someone more precious, still. Anelle gasped aloud.

"Is it truly for me?" she whispered, extending a finger to stroke the gem's surface. Such a jewel belonged in the neck-ring of a princess.

"None other shall have it," Gawain replied stoutly, warming to Nymphs and demigods in general.

Anelle snatched the emerald and tiptoed up to kiss her champion's face. Dimpling, she then turned to her just-arrived sire, grim, goose-scattering Morcar.

"Do you see, father? I was _not_ befooled nor ensorcelled when I read the omens! Sir Gawain has indeed returned, crowned with success."

Morcar grunted sourly. He was a tall man, broad about the shoulders from many years of swordplay and shield work. Like his daughter, Falkirk's lord was finely dressed. His long hair and moustache were shot through with streaks of grey, but the fire and steel had not left his brown eyes. Nor would they, for many years to come.

"Go on with you," he told the girl, as a beaming Father Arnolde trundled up to them, and Gawain arose from his bow. "Show the bauble t' your mother, and let men consult together in peace."

Anelle's head lifted. She had a younger brother, and so was prevented from inheriting her father's patch of chilly moorland. Nor had the girl great prospects for marriage, this far from court. Still,

"Indeed, milord father," she replied, "I would take the rebuke to heart, went you not so often to your lady wife for counsel!"

Morcar grinned and cuffed the side of his daughter's head. From him, a mere love-tap, though it made her head spin and Gawain's fists clench.

"Take _that_ to heart, and get thee hence! I accept no counsel but God's!"

(An outrageous lie, for besides the Lady Kait, Morcar was wont to consult the oracular droppings of certain specially-fed ravens. But Gawain and Father Arnolde didn't see fit to mention the fact. Unhealthy as night air, too much truth.)

Anelle flushed pink. Spreading the pleats of her velvet skirt, she dipped a knee in pretty courtesy.

"Of course, father. Pray forgive my impertinence. It is high spirits that moves me to speak thus, and gladness for my champion's return."

To Gawain, before leaving the busy courtyard, Anelle whispered,

"One day soon, you shall ride through these gates as my wedded lord and dearest love. Until then, think of me often and well."

Anelle's words were spoken with all of the deep, brimming fervor a maid of sixteen could hold. That her young knight felt the same piled wood on the flames, for both of them.

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_Ile St. Martin-_

They'd been warned by Jason that raids were a possibility, but no one quite believed it. Still, not wishing to be seen and mistaken for a raiding party, Peyton, Bambi and Mariana proceeded very quietly through the shadowy jungle.

The rainforest didn't get much cooler with nightfall, though the bug and bat quotient increased noticeably. Bambi Laughlin had stared into too many gross, gnarly mouths to scare easily. Thousands of fluttering, creepy things would set anyone off, though, wouldn't they? Thank God for Peyton, who knew where to step and what would bite you.

Bambi followed the older woman's lead, clutching a can of tuna, one cracker sleeve and half the bag of gummies. Not quite an even split, but still generous, and she was certain that the guys would appreciate her divided spoils, if only she could drop it off, unseen by Jason's cameras.

The path between their camps was stony and overgrown, lightless as a graveyard lane beneath all of those huge, heavy branches. Water dripped and bats squeaked. Stones slipped and rattled, knocked loose by her scurrying feet. To her own ears, the girl's panting breath sounded terribly loud. Almost, she missed another noise, the hiss and crackle of a comm unit.

Somebody… one of the camera crew, maybe… was on the path behind her. Bambi wobbled and nearly fell. Mariana reached back and steadied her, little more than a pony-tailed, soapy-smelling silhouette.

Urgently, Bambi whispered,

_"Mari, someone's…"_

_"I know,"_ Mariana replied. _"There's three of them, so Peyton wants to leave the trail and speed up. If they're headed for the guys' camp, then we need to get there first."_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

Upstairs, in the formal dining room, Lady Penelope laughed and chattered in the peculiarly airy, artificial manner of a slumming aristocrat. Scott Tracy seemed bored and Grandma indifferent, but she held Jeff in the palm of her manicured hand.

Flattering him, drawing him out about the latest rescues and leveraged buyouts, Penny listened raptly as Jeff described his triumphs. She was an excellent (and well-trained) audience. Wide-eyed, Penelope sipped Dom Perignon, toyed with a cream-dipped strawberry, and nodded a lot.

"What an astounding head for business you have!" she told him, when Jeff paused for breath and a drink. "I'm afraid that such matters leave me quite infallibly muddled."

She laughed lightly, then, running a fingertip along the gold rim of her crystal champagne flute.

"The family estate and holdings are dealt with by an absolute _stable_ of barristers, I assure you, each greedier and more corrupt than the last!"

"Well," Jeff said, leaning across the table to warmly pat Penelope's hand, "Tracy Aerospace keeps a number of sharp accountants and lawyers on exclusive retainer, Penny. So, if there's anything you need in the way of legal assistance, I'm your man."

And a fine specimen he was, too, with something of Virgil about the face and build, Scott in his serious nature, and John… Well, not much of dear John, at all, actually, except in the need for wealth and control. Neither here nor there, however, given the evening's vital business.

Smiling with automatic sweetness, Lady Penelope squeezed his hand.

"Jeff, darling," she purred, "You're much too kind! How is a girl to respond when faced with such gallantry?"

He smiled back.

"By accompanying her benefactor on a moonlight stroll, I hope," Jeff suggested.

Penny allowed a blush to slip across her perfect face, and made her dainty hand tremble slightly.

"Ah… moonlight and tropical blossoms," she sighed. "How divine! Shall we meet at the lower gate, then? Just the two of us?"

Grandma Tracy snorted rudely, and then got to her feet, muttering something about being too old and worn out for all this "blather and damn foolishness!"

Scott didn't bother to comment. Penelope had never struck him as a good match for dad, but at this point he could have set his hair alight and cart-wheeled around the dining room. Jeff's attention would not have strayed one inch from Lady Penelope's big, blue eyes… until the sprinkler system went off, anyhow. _Then,_ he'd catch hell for burning the house down.

Shrugging, Scott made a sandwich out of roast beef and dinner rolls. Really, what harm was there in a little flirting? At least she was pleasant, and had money of her own. His father had been chased harder by worse… and scarier… women.

On the whole, though, Scott was very glad to be off the market, firmly in possession of sensible, acid-tongued Cindy, who flirted like a US Marine.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Meanwhile, (way) downstairs-_

Alan loved the idea of marrying Gawain off and giving him in-law troubles. How better to keep a knight on the road and questing, huh? Just dangle that bait, and watch the fun…

Lord Morcar gazed fondly after his retreating daughter. It was a wonder that she managed to seem graceful and lovely, even while pausing to blow kisses amid goose-droppings, sheep and scattered hay. The nobleman lifted a hand, partly in smiling salute, partly in point. His expression was a good deal harder, when he turned to regard Gawain and Father Arnolde.

"There's a bit of Faerie about that one," he announced. "A hint of the changeling. The fey little minx was born on a night wild with storm and ice. Born without breath, at first, 'til the shutters blew open, admitting a cold wind and her first cry."

"Now then, my good Morcar," Father Arnolde tutted, "such superstition does you no credit, and harms the lass's chance of an advantageous union."

(He might have said more, but Arnolde was a comfortably padded priest, not a fool.)

Morcar regarded his longtime cleric sternly. Arnolde had his uses, chief among them being the ability to keep the peasants occupied with ritual and prayer, but a man must know his place.

"I know perfectly well what I saw that night, priest," his gaze slewed sideways, coming to a halt upon Gawain. "Just as I know that no landless, unsung pup of a knight shall have my daughter, for all the silly chit's plotting."

Morcar straightened his shoulders, somehow making himself even taller. In a firm, level voice, he said,

"My son Gareth shall inherit after me, while my daughter Anelle shall go to a man of riches and high standing. Do I make myself clear, sirrah?"

Perfectly.

"Aye, milord," Gawain replied with a bow.

Morcar nodded.

"So long as you understand this, you are welcome here, Gawain… as a guest and childhood friend to my daughter. Nothing more."

He could not answer with words, this time, merely bowing again. But inside himself, Gawain was determined that he'd acquire whatever he had to, in order to win Anelle. Dinner, under such circumstances, was highly strained.

When the young knight rode forth the next day, rested, fed and cleansed, he bore the favor of his lady, and more reason than ever to succeed in his quest.

_Ile St. Martin-_

Bambi, Peyton and Mariana hurried through the steaming-wet tropical night, desperate to reach the men's camp before the unknown intruders. Bambi had caught a glimpse of one in the brief glow of his comm screen, spying dark clothing and face paint, and catching a scent like oily rags. Definitely, not a cameraman.

The distance wasn't long, fortunately, or she might have gotten lost. Still, Bambi spent valuable time making her way through the jungle, while the raiding team had a path. Though she sped along as swiftly as possible, the girl arrived at the Trojans' clearing just in time to see a lit torch arcing and tumbling through the air, trailing a shower of glowing sparks. Disbelievingly, Bambi watched as the thrown torch landed on the roof of the men's hut.

She screamed, dropping her canned tuna and crackers. More practically, Peyton and Mariana rushed to the smoldering hut, yelling as loudly as possible for attention. A flood of escaping men tumbled forth, cursing and slapping at sparks. Camera lights blasted on, bright as day, and microphones hissed to life, recording the Trojans' lost hut and the three Amazon's panicked flight. Nobody saw any "raiders", despite what the women said.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Closer than anyone realized, the seabed had troubles of its own. A slow and unyielding magma bubble had found the cracked and fragile crust, and begun to push.


	8. 8: Devastation

Thanks, Tikatu, ED and Maggie, for your kind reviews.

**8: Devastation**

_Below the Pacific, some ten miles east of Ile St. Martin-_

Nudged by rising magma, the seabed shifted again. Coarse, ancient basalts shrugged upward like Atlas, then settled wearily back to their accustomed position, a movement of maybe twelve feet; you'd travel farther walking to the kitchen for a snack. But the crust's restless spasm gave terrible force and direction to the waters above, unleashing gold, sulfur, ashes and chaos.

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_Tracy Island; a clear, starry night at the family's __extremely__ private beach-_

It was, indeed, a lovely evening for a stroll out-of-doors; breezy and lush with the mingled scents of ocean and tropical gardens. Lady Penelope rarely regretted visiting Jeff's island paradise, for the peace, the views and the romance, if nothing else. She tended to come away nicely bronzed, as well, and who could ask more of a working vacation?

As the beautiful young woman ambled along the shore, hand in hand with an expansive and laughing Jeff Tracy, she very gently steered their conversation to the reason for her presence: the 2066 Multinational Corporate Conference, in Singapore.

"How terribly exciting it must be!" she cooed, gazing up at him with wondering eyes. Penny had dressed herself in an artfully revealing pink halter and wrap skirt. Her jewelry was minimal, her hair "carelessly" piled, her perfume subtle and sugary. In two short words: seductive perfection.

Jeff's feet were casually bare and his pants rolled up. His voice in the starlit darkness held a warm and audible smile.

"It's not as thrilling an event as you seem to think, Penny. I'm sure to an outsider, being presented at court would seem like non-stop excitement, too. But, when you've _been_ there…"

The young noblewoman winced delicately, awash in vivid memories.

"Dreadfully tedious, actually," she admitted. "Dear, sweet Denys is the absolute measure of staid propriety, and an inspiration to us all. Quite makes one yearn for the vanished days of his regent… not that I speak from personal experience, of course. But I'm certain that a conference such as the one in Singapore simply _pulses_ with high finance and intrigue."

Jeff chuckled, and his big hand tightened on her much smaller one, briefly. They'd met first in Monaco, where he'd gone to attend another such conference, and the memory of her behavior that time both enticed and frustrated him.

"More like high backstabbing and industrial espionage, Penny… but if you're that interested, why not come along, as my guest? You can't sit in on the actual meetings, but Singapore is a pretty diverting place all on its own. And, er… we could meet for dinner and a date, every evening afterward."

Mission accomplished. Penelope very briefly hugged Jeff's near arm, feeling hard muscle beneath his expensively tailored shirt. He was a strong man, wealthy, handsome and sophisticated, and she ought to have found him more attractive, but it seemed that her rebellious heart belonged to another. Still, business before each and every pleasure. Even John.

She thanked Jeff profusely, making delighted exclamations and happy plans to the music of water and the glow of soft path lighting. Inside herself, however, Penelope's mind raced with details.

Even more than states and countries, the world's multinational corporations had to avoid crossing each other… unless someone smelled blood in the water. Then, all wagers were off. These meetings were held to determine the upcoming year's division of influence, expansion and development. Naturally, key plans were expressed therein. Plans which WorldGov would pay dearly to obtain. Penny had two goals at the conference.

1) To micro-bug the secure meeting room, using RFID powder and a VPN tunnel.

2) To obtain any and all information available on one Stavros Valianatos, the newly elected CEO of Omega Petrochemical.

…And darling Jeff had just handed her the key. Penelope was reasonably close to genuine affection when she kissed his cheek, though she skipped free of the resultant embrace with a nervous laugh and a thudding heart. Not here, she told herself, not on business and not with this man, whose son she was beginning to love.

An odd sound caught Penny's attention just a fraction sooner than Jeff's, for she was several decades younger. A distinct, low-pitched rumble, it was; like the sea, only… louder? Clutching Jeff Tracy's right arm, Penny turned to regard the ocean. What she saw, glinting like frost in the starlight and moving horribly fast, was a very long line of white, raging surf.

"Jeff…?" she whispered, confused.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Ile St. Martin, in a luxurious stateroom aboard the 100-foot yacht, __Survivor__-1_

Jason Vann looked on via live feed at the chaos wreaked by his little pyro-team, and he laughed. Lensed by two of his cameramen… Vic and Shane… the male contestants pointed, yelled and hurled bitter accusations. The females protested their innocence, holding forth a damn tuna can as evidence that their presence in camp at the time of the blaze had been coincidental. The poor dears kept bringing up his warning of a possible raid, but Jason had made sure that only the women received _that_ intel. The men had simply been told that those greedy females were hording food. Good old suspicious, nasty human nature had done the rest. That, and a well-flung torch.

Tomorrow night's ratings, Vann figured, would be sky-high. Deeply satisfied, the host raised a brimming wine glass to his reflection in the mirrored ceiling, noting that his highlights needed touching up. He'd have to have his personal assistant… what's-her-name…schedule an appointment at _Le Chic_. '_Possibly the eyebrows, too_,' Jason thought, turning his attention back to Veal Marsala and plot twists.

He heard the approaching wave's avalanche rumble, but didn't understand it. Not until far too late to react.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At the men's camp, through a cliff-side gap in the trees, twelve contestants and two gaping cameramen watched as a great, surging wave blasted into the bay. Mounting up like a white-capped wall, it caught the production company's yacht and flipped the entire thing end-over-end onto land. The noise of the wave was like roaring flame, the sound of the yacht a wild shriek; the booming death-scream of seventy tons of metal and fiberglass.

"Oh my God…" Bambi whispered, dropping her tuna can as another giant wave smashed ship and shore like a hammer. "Oh my God, they're dead! What are we going to _do_?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

Alarms shrilled throughout the house, pool and lab complex, drawing rescuers from every location but one: the beach.

6


	9. 9: Fire and Brimstone

**9: Fire and Brimstone**

_Tracy Island-_

First had come the wave itself; swift and sudden, powerful enough to shake the ground and collapse a large sea cave. Then a stench, eye-searing and rotten as burning garbage. Soon, there was a glow on the eastern horizon. Not dawn, but a cloud of some sort, writhing across the water on legs of blue lightning.

Alan, Gordon, Fermat and John raced up from the basement lab complex, encountering Brains along the way. Besides the alarm, the ground itself had thrummed and quivered like a plucked guitar string, causing too much noise and confusion for talk. All they could do was evacuate. A few minutes along, they had to negotiate a two-foot crack in the floor, which the others hopped easily. John stopped long enough to lift a few trapped robots across, but sometimes he was weird like that.

Everyone got upstairs eventually, meeting Scott and Virgil on theirway _down._

"It's dad!" Scott shouted, as another line of angry surf neared the island. "He and Penny were out on the beach! He got an alarm off, but we've got to…"

His brothers were already moving. It looked and stank like the end of the world out there, with rain, gusting-hot wind and bits of stuff falling from the sky. The noise of angry, crashing water… its long hiss and roaring thud… seemed impossibly loud.

John Tracy was in astronaut-shape, his brothers Gordon and Virgil both athletes (though the one was a swimmer and the other retired). They flashed from the house to the pool decks and lower gate, would have hurtled the cliff stairs three at a time… had there been a beach to climb down to. There wasn't, though. No sand or path lights, no chairs orplants or paddle boat. Just dark, raging ocean, clawing its way up the cliff like something released from a cage.

"Shit!" John snarled. Then he turned right to run parallel (the left-hand way dead-ended in a mountain. Nobody walked in that direction unless they wanted to hike.) Gordon followed a few paces behind. He was long-winded, but too top-heavy to run well.

Not that anyone had it easy, with that rancid, dragon's-breath stench raking their lungs. John pulled his tee shirt over his mouth and nose, and was reminded of something truly, heart-clenchingly _bad_; something he couldn't quite recall that nevertheless made him run faster.

About a quarter of a mile along the cliff's edge, where it began to dip toward shore, the astronaut heard another sound: screams, feminine and raw-throated. That was a _"Jesus Christ, help me!"_ scream, not _"I'm playing"_, so he arrowed toward the noise, with Gordon and Virgil in close pursuit.

Stupid, maybe, in all this and without a flashlight, to scramble over the edge and start down, but he'd been dumber before for less reason, and Penelope's frantic voice drove him on. Gordon came after, stopping halfway to receive whoever John was able to hand up (no talk necessary, they'd trained so well). There was a slippery patch and water flying everywhere, but John kept going.

There, on a slab of stone he remembered as well above the ocean, Penny was rapidly being swamped. She clutched a knob of rock with one hand, while clinging to dad with the other, the only thing keeping him from being washed away. Already, Jeff was half-floating, his body rhythmically dragged at by a greedy, sulfurous sea.

John dropped to the slab beside them (slipped, actually) meaning to help brace his father. Everything happened in briefly-lit, unemotional pockets, for John, at least. Penny cried out and threw herself against him. He gave the young woman a risky-fast, one-armed hug before shoving her up toward his brothers, occasionally revealed in the lightning's fierce glare. Her trembling, salty mouth brushed his, and then she was gone, hauled upward by Gordon, whose strength was second only to Virgil's.

Then, with flying spray and little burning things biting at his face and hands, John tried to lift his semi-conscious father. No luck. He could keep the top half of dad's body out of the rising sea, but couldn't handle the man's two-hundred-twenty-plus pounds. Not alone.

Fortunately, a Tracy never _was_ alone. Not when it counted. Gordon was there an instant later, bleeding from several deep scratches and looking feral as hell. Together, he and John lifted their father off of the slab, handing him up to Virgil, who turned and thrust him into the extended hands of Scott and Alan. These two drew him over the edge to safety, while Gordon slapped John's back and pointed upward, meaning,

_'You go first.'_

Probably a good idea, since he was quite a bit lighter than his younger sibling, so John didn't argue, he climbed. The rocks were rounded and slick, making it much harder going up than coming down. He slipped a few times, but (again) there was Gordon, and further ahead a forest of reaching hands which seized his shirt, arms, belt loops… whatever they could grab hold of to pull the astronaut up and over.

Gordon followed next, yanked upward by Virgil just ahead of another huge wave. Deeply exhausted, the family huddled there, until trio of swooping, darting headlights announced the arrival of Brains, TinTin and Fermat on hover-sleds. Rescue and reinforcements had arrived in high style.

Anthill activity followed. He wasn't critically needed at the moment, so, while everyone else worked at getting Jeff loaded on a sled, John went to Penny. He had intended to be casual, but she was shivering like a wet kitten and had lost her skimpy halter top. Under the circumstances, casual wasn't an option. He jerked his black tee-shirt off and handed it over, standing so as to block the others' view while she dressed.

The shirt was too long. Penelope looked like a kid in her big brother's pajama top, but she also leaned close against him, and that felt pretty good. Glad she'd made it, John put both arms around her... but anyone who saw might've thought he was just keeping her warm.

A few yards away, Dr. Hackenbacker shouted over his wrist comm to the Pacific Rim Seismic Alert Centre. Back in the office, Grandma Tracy fielded a call from St. Martin.

"This is International Rescue," she snapped, keeping one eye on the screen depicting her homeward-bound family. "What is your emergency?"


	10. 10: Hell and High Water

In a hurry, while the site's up. Thanks Tikatu, Magrat and ED for the reviews. Will edit soon.

**10: Hell and High Water**

_Tracy Island-_

The air and ground that night were electrically tense, with static energy in great, glowing sheets flashing between them like an eerie aurora; heatless, blue-white and swift. Meanwhile, the ocean surged and thundered, paved with the pale bodies of dying fish and rippling ash.

Brains, Fermat and a newly-come Kyrano were already aloft on their hover-sleds, bearing away Jeff, Alan, Virgil and Gordon. The others were making ready to follow when, struck by a sudden thought, John turned from getting Penelope loaded up behind TinTin. Raising his voice, he called to his older brother,

"Scott, if there's a heavy-duty earthquake while 1 and 2 are still underground…"

Picked out like a thief in the hover-sled's headlights, Scott Tracy froze.

"God Almighty…" he whispered. "If those hangars collapse, we'll lose both aircraft and Thunderbird 4."

Hitting his wrist comm, Scott shouted through the wind and his pulled-up shirt,

"Virge, Gordon… you've got to launch, I mean _now!_ Skip the protocols, get to your Birds and take off. Alan, Brains... you'll do the same with 3. Got it?"

His comm beeped several times in rapid succession. Two quick-flitting hover-craft veered sharply away, while the other shot straight for the house. In plenty of time, hopefully. But Earth spoke, ocean and sky answered, and nothing seemed certain but ruin.

Scott pressed his comm screen again, and then strode over to John and the females. Standing in golden headlights, with ash hissing past him like dirty snow, he looked like he had in Antarctica, or the wintry bus stop back in Wyoming.

Seizing John's shoulder with one hand, he snapped,

"Little Brother, I'm going to need a lift to my hangar, the fastest way you can manage. After that, until dad's fit for duty, you're in charge of Base Operations. Do your best. I've got to get Thunderbird 1 in the air."

Made sense. John nodded briefly, feeling the ground stir beneath them like something about to wake up.

"Yeah, okay," he said, pulling away from Scott's urgent grip.

TinTin was already off the ground, but only a little. Behind her on the hover-sled, Penelope looked wide-eyed and serious. He would have kissed her, maybe, but people were looking and he didn't have a shirt on.

"Fly safe," he told TinTin, patting the girl's hand. Penny waited, still wearing his tee-shirt, but all he did was give her a brisk nod, adding,

"…you, too," and, "…stick with Parker," like she had a choice.

Soon their sled had joined the vanishing others, leaving Scott and John Tracy to mount up and cleave the skies alone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Ile St. Martin-_

Being closer to the source of all this trouble, St. Martin fared worse than Tracy Island. Water came at their "sheltered" harbor in high, rumbling walls, barely seen in the darkness but surely felt. It batted the crumpled yacht like a wildcat tossing a broken field mouse, hurling Vann's ship fifty feet up the escarpment, where it lodged among shattered trees and filming equipment.

Nobody ran. Nobody panicked, though the instinct to get to high ground was terribly strong. With the sky above them vomiting fumes and ash, Brick Sampson led a small group of volunteers to check the yacht for survivors, because (as he told the others),

"We've got to. It may not be what _he'd_ do, but people need help, and International Rescue could be a million miles away from here."

Arguments and competition set aside, the group split up. Brick, Peyton, Grant, Bambi and one of the cameramen stumbled in the direction of Jason's yacht. The others climbed upward just as blindly, heading for St. Martin's primitive airstrip.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

They landed rough, with ash-clogged intakes and miserable visibility. Their hover-sled's engine cut off a few inches above the pool deck, leaving the dead craft to drop the rest of the way like a ringing, skittering anchor. At that point, Scott and John parted company. It was difficult to speak clearly with so much gritty ash and rotten-egg stink on the wind, so the brothers made do with a handshake. Afterward, John sped for the house, leaving Scott to take an emergency access tunnel to Thunderbird 1.

The hatch was disguised and print-coded. Anyone not in the family would have mistaken it for an ornamental drainage grille… which slid aside with beeps and soft clicks to reveal a grav-disked manhole with steel rungs set in the curving walls (just in case).

Scott stepped off of the pool deck and onto the glowing disk, muttering scraps of prayer. The disk bobbed slightly, and then began to descend, projecting a tight force-field over its harried passenger. Probably, the grav-disk wasn't especially slow, but nothing's fast enough and no one responds properly, when you're in a hurry.

Clenching his fists, Scott forced himself to be patient, noting that ash was filtering in, and the tunnel walls beginning to crack. He'd have cut off the power and jumped, just to get there faster, but the disk's crackling energy field prevented him.

Needing some kind of action, Scott hit his comm again.

"John, where are you?"

His brother's response was delivered in short, panting gasps. Still outside, apparently.

_"Halfway…to the… house. You?"_

"Almost to 1. It's pretty bad down here. Virge and Gordon out, yet?"

Finally, he reached the hangar access door. Scott jumped off, but the hatch wouldn't open until that damn disk settled onto the tunnel floor. A gradual process, which couldn't possibly have taken as long as it seemed to.

_"They're working… on it. I've got repair crews… holding things together… and backup power… ready to go… Would advise… getting the hell airborne, though… quick."_

Scott's mind was racing, as he shot through the access door and into Thunderbird 1's vast hangar. Would John, Grandma and the others be safe, here on the island? Would they be any better off in an ash-choked and struggling Bird? They were deeply worrisome visions that chased Scott Tracy across the metal gantry. Picking up speed, he ran hard through a flexing hangar that rang with alarms and popping rivets.

John had cut off most of the safety protocols, allowing Scott to skid past the usual gantry ID checkpoints and right up to the tall silver Bird. Her boarding hatch was wide open, the cockpit remotely fired up and ready to go. She was a bitch to fly, hell-on-wheels, a tail-heavy pig… and Scott was terribly glad to be back in his seat and strapping down for takeoff. Overhead, the pool had already drained and was grinding slowly aside.

_'Please,'_ he thought, _'don't let it get stuck. Not sure I can blast through reinforced concrete and stay aerodynamic. Not in that wind.'_

There were about ten-thousand flashing lights on his instrument panel, and a long, branching crack… like the end of the world for an arctic explorer… spreading across the hangar wall.

"John!" the fighter pilot called, wanting to hear someone's voice as he initiated Thunderbird 1's takeoff sequence.

_"Yeah?"_

"I'm on my way. Just… hold the fort, buddy."

The engines howled to life beneath him, then roared aloud, burying most of John's response.

_"It's handled, Scott… rescues… over the damn place, so…"_

Not very comforting, but it was the contact that mattered; the fact that… even though the pool hatch got stuck three-quarters open until Scott shot it apart… someone was there to talk to.

_"…vertical evacuation of Honolulu and… hiti… St. Martin. Alert Centre… says…"_

Thank God for brothers, even cold, remote, all-business John. While he outlined the situation, Thunderbird 1 rose from her damaged launch silo, rocketing away like a phoenix departing its nest.

Elsewhere, Virgil and Gordon had remained together to the point where their access tunnels diverged. A swift backslap and hair tousle later, each young man was racing along a separate, shuddering passageway. Courtesy of John, their Birds were online and ready for action; one braced for launch into ash, wind and lightning, the other braving a fierce and turbulent sea.

Usually, Thunderbird 4's hangar required half an hour to fill with gently rising water. Only then would her launch bay doors open. This time, with emergency launch procedures initiated, a foaming torrent blasted into the hangar from all vents at once, flooding the 20,000 cubic-foot chamber in seconds.

Gordon was out of uniform but tightly strapped in. Needing more than floodlights, he'd keyed on the hull-sensor cyberlink; a mixed blessing. He could 'see' despite the darkness, but felt every bit of that battering, chaotic flow, and he flinched when the sea doors slid apart, admitting a powerful blast of sharply acidic water. It 'tasted' of sewage and seltzer, and Thunderbird 4 required full throttle and a mechanized catapult launch to make any headway, at all.

Virgil's progress was similarly slow, once outside the hangar.

"You know what to do, Big Girl," he told the cargolifter, as she rumbled through the doors into swirling darkness. He couldn't make out the runway lights, but his instruments mostly functioned, their beep and click suggesting a few notes from _"Mars, Bringer of War"_.

Somewhere out there, twin rows of false palm trees collapsed to the ground, but Virgil couldn't see them. Nor, when Thunderbird 2 paced from her lair and the ramp caught, raising her blunt nose, could he detect any difference in view. He launched anyhow, wondering what undersea volcano or newly-birthed island had unleashed hell.

More importantly, as Thunderbird 2 fought her way into the sky, Virgil wondered how they were going to save lives in all this.

9


	11. 11: Crossed Wires

Second edit.

**11: Crossed Wires**

_A slowly tearing South Pacific Plate-_

Despite a continual, boiling-sullen glow from the eastern horizon, dawn was a long way off, and visibility poor. They'd been in root cellars brighter than this, and less claustrophobic. Ash blew, dropped, twisted and danced in their high beams and running lights like a saw-toothed mockery of snow. Thanks to a million tons of powdered rock, sunsets would be redder and land more fertile for years to come… but at the moment, all it spelled was disaster.

Hot gas, falling ash and high seas working together choked and brought down a light commuter jet, capsized a small sailboat, blinded communications and just about crippled the rescue efforts of WorldGov and civilians, alike. International Rescue remained in action, but only just.

In the chaotically noisy office, John Tracy soon had his hands full. He stalked in late and out of breath, muttered,

"Hey, Grandma,"

…then kissed the old woman's cheek and took over behind the desk. Not her fault that dozens of garbled, much-bounced distress calls were being lost, or that his harried teammates kept mistaking him for a somehow-recovered Jeff. He had a quick and dirty workaround for the signals, though.

"Thunderbird 3," John called, pushing aside TinTin's coffee-and-sandwich tray. Grandma stubbornly nudged it back, but at a time like this, who could eat?

_"Go ahead, Mr. Tr… B-Base, that is… say."_

Brains' owlish image was broken and snowy, his voice distorted. Signal-to-noise ratio was literally from hell.

"I need you to take up a new position at 10,000 feet, 0 degrees latitude, 180 degrees longitude, below the main cloud layer. You'll be replacing EchoStar as a temporary signal relay station, once I give out your new coordinates."

A dangerous post, because all that airborne particulate crap could damage 3's systems, while sitting there bouncing signals would leave her wide open to attack. Punching up a list of comm numbers, John continued,

"We don't need to join the statistics, Ike, so charge up the force shields and keep her on impeller. Stay as long as you can, but use your head. If the situation gets critical, get the hell out. Understood?"

_"Y- Yes sir, Mr. Tra… Copy."_

Okay… he _wasn't _"Mr. Tracy" and he _damn_ sure wasn't "Sir"… but he didn't have time to argue, either. Not with some three-hundred blind and wandering data points desperately requesting a GPS fix. That ash cloud was wreaking deadly havoc with the region's satellite signals.

Using landlines and the old Trans-Pacific phone cable, John sent Thunderbird 3's relay coordinates to all local authorities, as well as the WASP station at Pearl. Thunderbird 3 wasn't EchoStar, but she could bounce signals pretty well, giving victims, relief groups and rescuers a way to communicate. Ham radio operators could pick up the slack. In the meantime, John typed, he called, gave instructions and strategized.

"Scott," he said a bit later, once the rocket plane had ascended to safety, and he had a plan. "Base to Thunderbird 1. How do you read?"

TinTin, Grandma, Penny, Parker, Fermat and Elspeth Morgan stood nearby, ostensibly helping out, but mostly just waiting for news. Even with the patched link, Scott's reply was faint and tinny, weird as biting down on aluminum foil with a mouthful of braces. On voice only, the pilot said,

_"Base from Thun… barely coming through… what's… plan, dad?"_

John shook his head, thinking, 'Not, dad, damn it! Re-allocate, and call the right file!'

According to Grandma, his father was still semiconscious, being tended at the infirmary by Kyrano. Concussion and hypothermia, probably, though he seemed to be getting stronger.

"Yeah, listen, it's John… I need you to get to St. Martin. We've got nine confirmed survivors stranded in harm's way, plus five possibles. Pick up the first group at the island airstrip. The others have launched a mission of their own. They'll rendezvous later, with anyone they've successfully pulled off the beach. Over."

There was no immediate response, so John leaned closer to the desk and depressed Scott's comm icon.

"Thunderbird 1, do you copy?"

_"…St. Martin… vivors… airstr… FAB."_

It was about then that he picked up the crashing plane's frantic distress call.

_"Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is… Lear… foxtrot… seven-niner… are going down! Repeat, going…"_

Shit. Hoping for the best, he dropped Scott, to contact the crashing plane. Repeated calls on several frequencies brought up nothing but a WASP sea cruiser and a floundering sailboat. Okay…think.

Switching tactics, John began hunting for transponder and black-box signals. Nothing… nothing… then, a hit. Weak as hell, but readable.

"Thunderbird 2 from Base. Virgil, where are you?"

Hopefully, his brother could hear him.

"_Just overhead, trying… top… clou… Go, Base."_

Score.

"Got a job for you, 2." John rattled off the plane's coordinates, repeating them twice, in case his signal faltered. Then, "We've got a plane down in the waters off San Marco. Unknown casualties. I'm going to route 4 your way, and WASP, as well. They'll assist with loading the rescue basket. Need you to proceed to the crash site immediately and search for any surviving victims. Over?"

_"FAB, dad. Good to… you back."_

Yeah. Thanks. Not bothering to correct his younger brother, John next contacted Gordon, with whom communications were refreshingly clear.

_"Go ahead, John,"_ the aquanaut responded. His signal was being relayed and sent via towed sea antenna. It didn't have quite as far to go as the airborne others'. No incipient segfaults, here. _"Where am I bound?"_

John gave him the plane's probable location, adding,

"Virgil's alone in Thunderbird 2. He's going to have his hands full keeping her steady in all this, so it's up to you and WASP to load the basket with any survivors. You'll need full protective dive gear and a helmet, Gordon. Get there as fast as you can, but be careful surfacing. No sense finishing people off by clubbing them straight out of the water."

Seriously. You had to think of everything. Gordon didn't seem as concerned, though.

_"Relax, John. I've got this. Give all my best t' TinTin an' Grandmother. On my way."_

"Right. Take care."

Nothing like a positive attitude in the midst of tectonic damn slam-dancing. Next, the astronaut relayed details about the crashed plane and capsized sailboat to a nearby WASP cruiser. Should have been simple, except…

"What do you mean you're stopping at Tracy Island? What makes you think they need help?"

Over the desk-comm, a ship captain's grim, staticky voice replied,

_"International Res… this is WNS Scorpion, dispatched… continued heavy seas… volcanic activity and tsunamis… evacuate… islands. Will reroute… crash site. Then… proceed as ordered… St. Martin and Tracy Island."_

Oh… _hell_. No way to forbid WASP from doing their duty, not without revealing that, not only didn't the folk on Tracy Island need rescuers, they _were_ rescuers; illegal ones. Nor could he claim that they'd already been picked up, not with IR visibly busy everywhere else but here.

"Um… sure. Makes sense. We'll pass the word along."

John glanced around the crowded office, counting off believable refugees. Let's see… TinTin could go, if worst came to absolute necessity… Grandma, too, plus Parker, Elspeth, Fermat, Kyrano and maybe dad, if he was in any shape to be moved. Also…

"No, dear."

Lady Penelope had lingered near the big comm desk, close by John. Sensing the direction of his thoughts, she shook her blonde head.

"I shall not leave, nor Parker, either. Should our would-be rescuers prove obstreperous in this evacuation nonsense, you may fob them off with whomever else you will. We two, however, remain_."_

She meant it, too, seeking safety for her lady's maid, alone. Penny had cleaned herself up and changed clothes. No longer wearing his tee-shirt, she stood before John in a body-skimming black cat-suit; sleek and beautiful. _Damn_, females picked the weirdest times to be stubborn, and the least convenient moments to turn sexy. Well, maybe later.

He shrugged.

"Fine, whatever. But if a world-ending wave _does_ come, and we're all three drowned, I don't want to hear it from you. Plan to die quiet, or get to safety. Understood?"

She looked like wanting to reach for him, then, sort of lips-parted-trembling. Despite his resolve, John started to respond. But Grandma was there, her brown eyes narrow and sharp. He turned away, saying,

"The rest of you pack a few necessary items, just in case WASP actually shows. I'll stay back. Don't mention that there's anyone left, please, and, uh… try to look grateful."

"Grateful, hell!" Grandma snorted. "You'd have to hog-tie me, John Matthew, and even then, they'd be lucky to take me alive."

Nor were the others willing to be carted off, complicating John's life immensely. Well, _Scorpion _was going to be busy for awhile, and in the meantime, a lot could happen. Some of it even good.

Outside, the night grew wilder still. Dark winds shrieked around the building, lightning flared and ash piled up like blizzard-snow. Under the sea, a crack widened further, nudged gently as a cat by the magma below.


	12. 12: Trouble Comes in Threes

Uploading in a hurry, but will edit soon. Promise. Thanks for the reviews, ED and Tikatu. Second edit.

**12: Trouble Comes in Threes**

_St. Martin, under deadly natural siege-_

There comes a point where you can't much see and it's terribly hard to breathe; where sheer, stupid determination is the only thing that keeps you going. Twelve friends and competitors (with a pair of stunned cameramen) had split into two groups, and they'd long since passed that point.

Brick, Peyton, Grant and Bambi were creeping their way to Jason Vann's yacht amid shuddering trees and blowing ash. Shane Poston was the younger cameraman. He lit their way with his flashlight, illuminating as much ground as a streetlamp in a snowstorm, and preventing several bad spills.

Bambi kept close to the light and closer to Brick, whose muscular frame blocked a bit of the wind. She shouldn't have been here, the girl thought. She belonged in a fluorescent-lit office, or sprawled on her apartment's red couch, watching movies like normal people; in her bathrobe, with a tub of ice cream and a box of Kleenex. In her own mind, Bambi wasn't much of a hero. She ought to have been home in bed, strategizing the next day's outfit.

Yet… her feet kept moving and, though they squinted and burned, her eyes remained fixed on that bobbing, questing light and Brick Sampson's back. Nice guy, Brick… the sort that a dental hygienist could fall hard for, if she lived long enough. _Really _nice guy; decent clean through. Maybe, if International Rescue ever showed up, and the world didn't end in fire, she'd ask him out. In this manner, warmed by her thoughts, Bambi stumbled onward.

She halted when the others did, staring at a weirdly-angled hulk projecting like ice from an ocean of snapped trees. It took her a few seconds to realize that this shorn and bent thing, with its tangled anchor chain and crushed hull, was all that remained of _Survivor-1. _Not a shipwreck but a ship ruin, tossed ashore with tons of dead fish and piles of shattered coral.

Shane's light played over the bent keel, seeking a way out of that sulfurous wind. A long, dripping crack bisected the yacht, whose bottom was dotted with tightly shut barnacles. This close, the stench of fish and spilt fuel almost overpowered the wind's rotten-egg stink, but not quite. Daggers of metal and fiberglass lined the opening, which gaped like a twisted mouth and looked just about as welcoming. Still, it was a way inside.

Brick tested each step as he led their way up a crazy staircase of fallen palm trunks. Every so often the ground moved, shifting the mass of trees and the yacht's ragged wound, but nobody fell. Worst of all was when lightning flared. That was pretty bad, but Bambi simply clutched at one of those abrasive palm trunks and waited. As her mom had used to say, _"Lightning don't last, honey. It's nothing but sparkle and noise."_

She got inside, eventually, joining Brick and Shane. God knows what awaited them there, Bambi thought, but at least they were out of the ash-fall. Rubbing scratched hands against her blouse, the girl scraped up just enough energy to follow the two leaders. Just enough optimism to reach back with a quick smile and offer Peyton a hand up. After all, she was here to save lives, just like the braver others.

Thunderbird 1 shrieked overhead at nearly the same time, cutting across a dark and angry sky toward St. Martin's tiny airstrip. According to John, there'd be nine or ten people waiting for him down there, about the most that his Bird could safely accommodate. A second group had headed for shore, apparently to rescue possible shipwreck survivors. Those, he'd have to return for.

Inside the cockpit, Scott Tracy fought what seemed like the battle of his life to keep Thunderbird 1 in the air. Driven this way and that by shifting winds, she bucked, slewed and juddered. Even with computer avionics, he could barely maintain level flight. Had she been a regular jet, her engines would have choked silent minutes after launch. As it was, alarm lights and beeping attention signals filled the cockpit, until Scott cut them off. He had to concentrate, and didn't need any more bad news.

The island was mostly invisible below him, having nothing in the way of cities or towns, just an endangered reality television crew. John had given him the airstrip's coordinates, though. He didn't need to see to touch down. Just… hold her… steady. Landing gear down… full impellers… cut to half…

His mouth was dry and his jaw ached from being clenched, but he didn't have time to pay attention. Times like these, Scott wasn't flying the plane, he _was_ the plane, focusing a hundred percent on descending through gritty wind and shredded lightning. His altimeter ticked steadily lower. 100 feet… 50 feet… 45…

Then his Bird took a direct lightning strike. A broiling violet glare filled the entire world for ten billionths of a second, temporarily blinding Scott and setting off every instrument in the cockpit. The noise was volcanic, indescribably loud, but he somehow kept hold of the stick and guided her thumping, twenty-foot drop to the ground. It was a couple of seconds before Scott called in to Island Base, mostly because he didn't trust his voice.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

"Say again?" John replied, speaking slowly and clearly into the comm. "You've landed?"

Scott didn't sound too good, but maybe it was just a crappy signal.

_"Said… made it…one piece. Deplaning… pick up passengers, but I'm not… Please advise."_

Damn. Advise what? For which scenario? In his head, John ran through a quick checklist of problem-solution sets, just as he would have done while flying for NASA. In his head, an entire decision tree flowered and branched.

If… then. Failure… contingency. Problem… response. He had a plan. Dozens of them, in fact. All he needed was the proper input.

"Scott, I need you to state again the exact nature of your malfunction," said John, his blue-violet eyes focusing, not on the office control panel, but on his internalized image of Thunderbird 1.

The comm crackled. Then,

_"Lightning strike, Little brother. Got… few hundred shorts and alarm... Not sure about… launch. Care to… in?"_

Okay… lightning strike. In his mind, the decision tree was instantly pruned back to a few glowing branches. Massive static discharge, most likely overwhelming fuses and capacitors all over the damn place. He visualized Thunderbird 1's complex neural network of wiring and equipment, at the same time calling it up on one of the wall comms. Transmitted a quick diagnostic request to the Bird's main computer, too, because it never hurts to try everything you can think of.

"We're going to have to reset a few things, Scott. I'll try remotely, first, while you see about the TV crew. If that doesn't work, I'll talk you through restart, clear and power-up. Understood?"

_"Sounds like… plan, thanks. I'll call back when… inside and squared away."_

"Copy that, Thunderbird 1."

Obscurely warmed, John smiled briefly and then set to work flipping through schematics. Ought to be a relatively simple fix, even if some of the more sensitive avionics were fried. After all, you could always patch, work around, or fall back on deeply nested redundant systems.

The sudden hard hand on his shoulder was all the warning John got that his father was out of bed and ready to resume his post, the others' responses not having penetrated the astronaut's work-fog. Startled, he whipped around and jerked away, unaware that the motion looked terribly rude.

Jeff and John Tracy stared at each other for an instant or so, and then John glanced away. Didn't know what to say, in surprised-as-hell mode. Wait… what was it Virgil had said, earlier…?

"Um… hey, dad. Good to have you back."

"As he should certainly _not_ be!" Kyrano cut in anxiously, wringing his elegant hands. "Bed rest is indicated, even for instances of mild…"

"Thank you, Kyrano," Jeff interrupted his manservant. His grey hair was slightly mussed, and he'd a largish sticking-plaster affixed to his forehead, but otherwise, the tall older man seemed perfectly fine. Pupils a little dilated, maybe.

"I appreciate your concern… yours, too, mother, Lady Penelope… but I'm more than well enough to do my job."

"But of course, darling! We've far too much experience with your firmness of character to _dream_ of standing in your way!"

So saying, Penny smiled and patted Jeff's arm. He'd already heard from Kyrano how she'd kept him from being swept out to sea, and the smile that he trained on her now was genuinely grateful and loving.

"Good to know _someone_ around here has a little faith," the man said, adding briskly, "Bring me up to speed, son. What's happened since you were placed in charge?"

Certain things slid coldly around inside of John, but he shook them off and began his report.

"According to the Pacific Rim Alert Centre, there's been a magnitude 4 earthquake thirty-seven miles east of St. Martin, with repeated small aftershocks. Mid-sized tidal waves have struck all over the South Pacific basin. Here, St. Martin, San Marco, Tahiti… pretty much everywhere, including Hawaii."

Gently setting Lady Penelope aside, Jeff folded his arms.

"Understood, son. Go on."

Penny glanced once at John. She tried to smile but couldn't, quite. In fact, her expression (which, unlike Thunderbird 1, didn't come with schematics) was tough to figure out.

"Yes, sir. Given all the ash and fumes, the Alert Centre's hypothesizing that we've got an undersea volcano on our hands, but no one's been close enough yet to check. Too dangerous. Vertical evacuation of all major Pacific Rim cities is in effect, and WASP's got a couple of cruisers out, plucking people off smaller islands like, um… like this one. They're supposed to be sending _Scorpion_ to evacuate us in a couple of hours, but…"

"You didn't _agree_, did you?" Jeff demanded, his face hardening suddenly.

John should have answered his father. He had an actual response to that question, but he just sort of froze. Said Grandma, moving to stand crosswise between them,

"Damn communications were so glitchy we couldn't much hear the feller, Jeffery, and sure as hell didn't want to give nuthin' away. John Matthew said as he'd pass the word along to the 'island folks', and asked if some of them WASP boats could help out with a crashed plane. Got 'em off our asses for awhile, anyhow."

She stared fiercely up at her tall son; arms akimbo, mouth a hard line and brown eyes offering battle. Wisely, Jeff backed down, letting Victoria Tracy once more defend a weakling who lacked the guts to handle his own fights. All he said to John was,

"I see. Under the circumstances, I suppose you did the best you could. I'll call them myself and correct the situation in a moment. What about your brothers?"

Another comm light flicked on before John Tracy could fumble out the keys to speech and motion. Virgil, this time. Everyone turned to the nearest wall screen, including dad.

Finally out of that cold and scathing spotlight, John slipped from the room to continue work elsewhere. Penny followed at a discreet interval, face pale and heart hammering. Of course, Grandma Tracy noticed. She didn't say anything, though. Not then, nor for many years to come.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, over a turbulent, seething Pacific-_

Virgil had done most of his flying well above the worst of that ash cloud. Up at 50,000 feet, the night was relatively clear, with bright stars above and a roiling, crimson-shot cloud layer below. Virgil flew quietly for fifteen minutes, whistling 'Rhapsody in Blue' and longing for a cigarette.

All good things must come to an end, though, and fairly soon, he had to descend. From silence and starlight to screaming hell he dropped, following John's coordinates. Under those clouds, the dense, grainy darkness was absolute, so he switched on Thunderbird 2's floodlights. _Bingo_.

No longer whistling, Virgil Tracy swept his lights over the water below, and what he saw wasn't good. The sea had been beaten to furious peaks by wind and eruption. It tossed bits of scattered luggage around, along with a few shreds of engine cowling. There were people down there, as well; too numb with shock to do much more than hang in their inflatable life vests. One of them managed to lift an arm and gesture for help as Thunderbird 2 settled lower.

"I see you, buddy," Virgil answered softly, opening the rescue hatch. "I'm coming."


	13. 13: On the Western Front

Second edit. Thanks for the review, Tikatu. Reply forthcoming, honest.

**13: On the Western Front**

_Thunderbird 3, hovering on full impellers-_

Okay, maybe they _were_ just sitting around, bouncing signals like one of TinTin's dang mirrors, but he was still on a mission (sort of) and still in Thunderbird 3. On the whole, Alan was pretty psyched, with just one thought in his sneaky blond head: how to get Brains out of the pilot's seat.

Outside, all was drifting, gritty powder and wild lightning; total darkness jolted awake every-so-once-in-awhile by sheets of flaring light. _Cool_. Inside, the showpiece-fancy cockpit beeped, chirped and hummed with all of those relayed communications, some of them military.

There wasn't much flying to be done, but Hackenbacker refused to relinquish even _that_ little dab of thrill. Like, for real, couldn't he at least let Alan watch the comm and hold position? Dude, where's the trust? The _love?_

Desperate to get his hands on the flight controls, Alan bargained, he whined, he pleaded and he begged. No joy. Hackenbacker was a frickin' rock, indifferent to everything from…

_"Please?_ I'll be your friend!"

To…

"Dad would _order_ you to let me fly, if he was awake!"

…To outright bribery. Instead of caving in, though, all Brains did was grunt and shake his head, too busy listening to the Centre's geologic headlines to pay attention. Still, rocks could be got around, or washed away.

Switching tactics, Alan braced himself against 3's occasional shudder and went aft to the "lounge". There he made instant coffee, with, like, flavors in it; everything he thought might make a guy thirsty. Into the warming brew he tossed hazelnut, chocolate, caramel, cinnamon and lots of regular cream. Plus, he made it extra strong. Not as potent as Grandma's "black medicine", but more than dense enough to get the job done. When the stuff was ready, Alan headed carefully forward again, carrying a big, lidded mug of steaming doom.

Naturally, Brains drank the coffee, and even (heh!) requested more. Innocent as a choir boy, Alan fetched him another large cup. The inevitable happened about halfway through his third serving; Hackenbacker developed a powerful urge to visit the little dude's room and pee (_"Like a white racehorse,"_ as Granddad would have put it).

It was then that Alan began talking about water: rivers, streams, the ocean… He even stooped so low as to sing that dumb song from his mom's favorite Disney movie.

"Drip, drip, drop, little April shower, beating a tune as you fall all around…"

Just, kind of, y'know… sublimic, and junk. Finally, Brains couldn't take it anymore. He stopped shifting around in the pilot's seat and unstrapped to dash for the head, muttering,

"A- Alan, take the, ah… the c- controls. I won't be long. Just h- hold her, ah… hold her s- steady, please."

"No problemo, dude. Alan Tracy is on the job!" No cub scout could have looked more earnest or helpful. Not that Hackenbacker noticed, sprinting, as he was.

"Yes, _sir,_" the smiling boy continued, settling himself behind the controls of Thunderbird 3. "This mission is under new management. All your rescue needs handled cheap and fast, satisfaction guaranteed."

Of course, that was before dad called, and that business about the St. Martin care package and, uh… his signed pictures came out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 1, St. Martin-_

Letting John worry about getting the Bird re-started, Scott Tracy donned an air mask, helmet and protective suit, and then deplaned to pick up his first load of survivors. They'd seen and heard Thunderbird 1 descend, watched the plane flare like its namesake with violet lightning, then crunch to a heavy landing.

Some kind of ladder dropped a few minutes later, about halfway along the craft's silver fuselage. Next a hatch opened up, the light above it winking suddenly from amber to green. A tall man stepped forth, bulky with protective equipment and air tanks. He played the beam of a flashlight around the dark airstrip, and then started down the ladder. Ling, Mariana, Ben, Chandra and the rest were halfway up before he got very far, though. Not so much a rescue, then, as a straightforward pickup (in high winds and fanged darkness, with ground underfoot that twitched like a restless sleeper).

The sulfurous gale plucked and shoved at them, but nine men and women made it up that humming ladder. Scott waved the refugees inside and did his best to get them all strapped down to the hold's cargo webbing and Mobile Command gear. Not easy to do, as Thunderbird 1 had never been intended to carry passengers. She was a rapid first responder, not a heavy lifter like Thunderbird 2. Still, any port in a storm and all buckets for bailing. You threw whatever came to hand.

The _Survival_ cast was grey with ash; red-eyed and coughing in the tightly-packed hold. Worried about their companions at the harbor, they urged Scott to hurry, but everything depended on his brother's skill with repairing electronic systems.

"I'll return as quickly as possible," Scott promised the anxious young cast, watching as they tightened their safety straps and shared 'round his oxygen mask, "but I can't do a thing for your friends until _you_ folks are out of here and safe on the mainland."

They understood, of course. Didn't like it, but understood. Passengers seen to, Scott shut the inner hatch and returned to the cockpit. The last time he'd faced a situation like this one had been in simulation, when first learning to handle "Rescue-1". He'd crashed her then, scoring catastrophic failure on nearly every attempt. Things were different now, Scott promised himself, brushing away as much of that damned ash as he could. Now he was calm and experienced, and he very much knew how to handle a little trouble.

The instrument panel shone with blinking lights as Scott approached and strapped in for launch. Good to go, or nearly so. With John's help, Thunderbird 1 was repairing herself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 4, in a murky and surging Pacific-_

Ordinarily, the ocean about him contained such quick, darting vibrations as corresponded to fish and reflected wavelets. Light penetrated well, and he could 'feel' the presence of dense seamount and diving whale, through the eddies they plowed in the green water. Not this time.

A crust of ash and dead fish covered the heaving surface, and the water itself stank. It moved oddly, as well, with plumes of heated gas rising from the bottom like smoke from a chimney-pot. Gordon Tracy had rarely felt less secure in the ocean, especially when he began to encounter the first slow-spiraling bits of the plane wreck. Luggage and sodden seat cushions drifted downward. Then an arrowhead of shorn carbon-composite wing sliced past to bury itself in the denser gloom below, trailing bubbles and fuel. A few bodies hung neutrally buoyant, pushed this way and that by swirling currents.

Gordon did not see these things; he felt them, with a portion of his mind linked to 4's hull sensors. But vision wasn't as necessary now as speed and caution. Gordon moved safely, but he moved quickly, arriving shortly after Virgil. He surfaced with care, sensing the reverberations made by feebly kicking legs and sculling arms. Not everyone had a lifejacket. Some were clinging to anything at all that would float. Thunderbird 4 broke water like a small, chunky whale, emerging in the relative calm of Thunderbird 2's huge impeller shadow. Above it, the big cargolifter hovered and thrummed, her rescue hatch already open and floodlights sweeping the ashen surface.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_St. Martin-_

Inside the crumpled yacht, Brick Sampson, Peyton Spence, Grant Bryce, Bambi Laughlin and Shane Poston picked their way through a card-house collapse of decking and bulkheads. Nothing was where it belonged, further disorienting the half-blind rescuers. Clearing his raw throat, Brick managed to call out,

"Hey! Anybody home? Answer if you can hear me! Knock or yell! Mr. Vann? Anybody?"

Brick had to raise his voice to be heard over the creaking wreckage and funeral wind, but there came a number of moaned and mumbled replies. Naturally, tragically, from deep within the shattered yacht. Good sense and caution would have bidden them wait for help. Courage and compassion drove them onward.


	14. 14: Bound and Determined

Edits are here. Thanks for your patience.

**14: Bound and Determined**

Disturbed by things below, the Earth continued to stir. Subtly, though; more twitch and shrug than definite quake. A chain of dormant volcanoes had meanwhile shuddered awake, brought to life again by shifting stone, seeping water and hissing gas. Bad enough news, but last of all in that long-silent, southward sweeping arc lay Tracy Island.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 1, in a noisy, blinking cockpit-_

His brother was a genius, and Scott silently promised him a case of beer and whole mountains of pizza, once all this was over. The remote fix had worked beautifully, not just repairing Thunderbird 1, but improving her, modifying the rocket plane's forward shields to screen fine particulate matter like smoke and ash. Had John been present in the cockpit, Scott would have hugged him.

Instead, the one-time fighter pilot cut on his impellers and guided the Bird upward through many layers of grey-black, roiling cloud. Wind direction was hardest to deal with, for a sudden torrent of air could come from literally anywhere, slapping the laden rocket plane around like a metallic ping-pong ball. On the bright side, no one was shooting at him. You had to keep these things in perspective.

Scott Tracy relied on his instruments and occasional GPS spot checks to direct his course. He stayed in the air, but progress was slow until he topped the ash layer and burst into night, heading for dawn and South America. Here, at last, he could pour on the speed… though maybe not soon enough for the folks left behind on St. Martin.

As concerned as he was pressed for time, Scott flicked a virtual switch on his heads-up display to boost the comm signal. Then, he called in to Island Base. Didn't get much of a connection, though.

"Dad…? John…? You there? Base from Thunderbird 1, how do you read?"

The response was weak and broken, but Scott thought he detected the words _'Go ahead'_, amidst all that hissing static, so he said,

"Base, there are at least five people still present on St. Martin. Repeat… at least five remaining refugees at the island's eastern harbor. They're going to need pick up and medical care faster than I can drop this load off and turn around. Is anyone available to get in there and lift them out?"

Back in his ornately-decorated office, Jeff Tracy took the call. His head hurt, and his thinking was fuzzier than it should have been. Dealing with WASP was especially draining, as _Scorpion's_ captain was a by-the-book hardass with less flexibility than a perma-crete block. Now, this.

Jeff grunted and set down his barely-touched coffee cup, positioning it precisely on the previous damp ring. Placing Captain Iron-Pants on hold, he then switched full attention back to son number one.

"Thank you for the update, Scott. Proceed with your part of the evacuation. I'll see what we can do, from this end."

While the folk about him rushed to collect and cushion fragile bric-a-brac, Jeff Tracy moved with deliberation; carefully planning each head-turn and gesture. On top of everything else, he was nauseous, possibly more affected by his recent wave-drubbing and 'mild concussion' than he wanted to believe. Still, International Rescue was Jeff's show, and he was one-hundred-percent in charge. Discomfort or no, he called up Thunderbird 3 and got back to work.

"Brains," he snapped, "I'm altering your mission. Thunderbird 1 was unable to collect all of the victims from St. Martin, so Thunderbird 3 will have to move in for second-stage pick up. Do you read?"

There was no immediate response, so Jeff prodded,

"Thunderbird 3 from Base. Do you copy?"

This time, he got another brief tremor and a reply, from Alan rather than Hackenbacker.

_"Hey, da… Brains… right back… Indisposed and junk."_

Naturally. Meanwhile, the line from _Scorpion_ went dark, indicating that his WASP contact had grown tired of waiting and rung off. It was precisely then that Jeff's youngest son fired his bomb about the care package and note to the crew on St. Martin.

_"Maybe not such... idea, dad. I kind of sent... pictures and food to... Survival chicks."_

"You did… _what?"_ Jeff demanded, disbelieving his comm and ears, both.He would have throttled the boy, if he could have reached him.

_"Okay, see, I figured… hungry, so I sent candy and… only a couple…signed pictures, just for laughs…Bambi… them out to all her hot friends and…"_

(He'd packed six pictures, in fact, each signed: "Love, A. R. T., your secret island hero… Model, actor, racecar enthusiast and billionaire playboy.")

Furious, Jeff stabbed a button to sever contact. The entire room fell silent. Fermat and TinTin grew especially still, for they'd helped their friend plan and deliver the package. Now he was unable to assist on St. Martin for fear of being recognized. Worse, Virgil, Jeff and TinTin were out of the picture as well, having been to the island and talked with its cast and crew.

"Damn it!" Jeff snarled, feeling like one giant, swollen aneurysm, "What the hell was he _thinking_?"

An answer of sorts came from John, who'd returned to the office with news and an offer.

"I'd say he's welded to the faint possibility of sex," the astronaut commented, shrugging slightly. "Males that age usually are."

(Like things improved much, with time. Still, Alan was in real trouble with dad, so…)

"I understand that the trouser-snake phase passes, eventually."

Grandma snorted and resumed her quake-proofing efforts. TinTin blushed scarlet, while Fermat merely looked confused. Once more playing the proper manservant, Kyrano pretended not to have heard… unlike Parker, who grinned like a shark. Penny was out of the room, still, or she'd have said something sarcastic. But she was weird, like that. The important thing was that John had diverted some of his father's wrath.

Rubbing at his temples with both hands, Jeff muttered,

"That's entirely beside the point, son. Endangering security because he hoped to impress a gaggle of actresses was inexcusably stupid. At that age, I had more sense."

Here, Jeff paused; squinting up at John as though weighing in his mind whether the family's _other_ blond was any less foolish. Hung jury, apparently, because the older man went grumpily back to the problem at hand.

"I'll straighten him out in debrief, later. In the meantime, we've got WASP and several rescues to deal with, plus refugees on St. Martin in need of rapid pick up. Thunderbird 2 is out of the question, because they've already seen Virgil and heard his voice. Scott's busy… and Alan's gotten himself compromised. Thunderbird 4 can't hold that many people," Jeff continued, while hunting for a functional television news channel, "…which leaves us with _Scorpion,_ or a NASA-style quick fix. And that reminds me,"

The former astronaut gave his tall son a sudden sharp glance.

"I assume you've called in to Houston already, and reported your status?"

John nodded.

"Yeah. I told them that the situation is stable so far, but that we've got evac on the way, just in case. They requested regular updates and wished us well."

(Because,

A: A trained astronaut was tough to replace, and…

B: Maybe he had a few friends over there, or something.)

The offer sprang naturally enough, given the situation, and despite the risk to NASA's cherished property. After all, no one on St. Martin had yet seen or heard John.

"I could go," the young man volunteered. "There are still a few of Brains' working prototypes down in the sea hangar. I, um… I could take one of his drawing-board rescue boats and head for St. Martin."

Jeff frowned, and then gave his quiet son a reluctant nod.

"All right, but be careful. The Barracudas are fast, but hardly field-tested. You'll have to adapt and repair on the fly, in extremely hazardous conditions. God speed, and keep in close touch."

John wasn't at all sure how to reply, but it didn't matter, because dad was already back on the comm with WASP. In any case, he managed to get the hell off of his father's island, with Penelope Creighton-Ward and Aloysius Parker along for the ride, always a major plus.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbirds 2 and 4-_

Gordon was suited up and out of his sub's lower airlock in less than five minutes. He cut corners, yes, but no one out there had time for strict procedure. So, with a swift _'Hail, Mary'_, he plunged through the hatch and began stroking hard for the surface. Broke out moments later into noise and chaos and battering wind.

The floodlights' hot glare illuminated bobbing heads, upraised arms, the rescue basket and floating debris. Above them, Thunderbird 2's engines pulsed and growled, but the wind was louder still.

Gordon swam with difficulty through a gummy, heaving ocean, dodging bits of spinning luggage and torn aircraft as best he could. It was exhausting work; a far cry from competition swimming. He found it hard to see what he was doing, as a mud-like mixture of blown ash and warm water persisted in coating his facemask. Frequent pauses were necessary to clear the glass, slowing Gordon's progress.

The first victim he came to was a semiconscious woman. She lacked the strength to reach for his hand, much less climb into a dangling rescue basket. Gordon timed his approach for a trough between waves, so that he wouldn't simply plow into her like a careening rugby player. Almost, she spun out of reach, but the determined rescue swimmer took hold of her life jacket and hauled the woman back. When he'd got her pulled in, he unclenched his regulator long enough to gasp,

"Evenin' miss... I'm with International Rescue... an' I'm here t' help."

Inside his protective headgear, Virgil's transmitted voice said,

_"Okay, Kiddo. Up and to your left. The basket's about two-and-a-half feet above you."_

Gordon nodded, wheezing,

"Right."

He'd got his right arm wrapped around the stunned woman and rolled to a side-back swimming position. Couldn't very well see, but a tall wave crest finally raised him within reach of the blinking, beeping rescue basket. Gordon's free hand slid blindly along wet, rubberized metal, seeking a firmer grip.

There were rings and brackets spaced evenly along the basket's hard sides, and Gordon found purchase on one of the lower handholds. As the rescue basket swung and spun, he reoriented to pull himself halfway out of that greyish and stinking mud soup. Not much elegance to the manner in which he heaved the woman up and over the side, but there was one safely delivered, at least.

_"She's in,"_ Virgil confirmed, as Gordon held to the swaying basket and scraped anew at his smudged faceplate. _"Sit tight, champ. I'll put you as close as I can to the next one."_

Once more, he spat out the regulator, saying,

"Right, Virgil. Thanks."

Gordon hadn't time or energy to expend in conversation, but he was deeply grateful for his brother's help, nonetheless. Thunderbird 2 shifted position slightly, dragging him about ten meters through rank, murky water and clinging ash. Saved him a bit of effort, though he got rather knocked about by all the floating debris. Then it was off the basket and over to the next crash survivors, a pair of terrified men with a gradually sinking debris pile between them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_St. Martin, inside Jason Vann's crumpled yacht-_

Slowly (using crowbars, wrenches and whatever else came to hand) four erstwhile contestants began prying their way to the trapped victims. They couldn't scatter to search the wreckage, as only Shane Poston had a light. Being a cameraman, he had a steady hand, and held the flashlight's beam wherever it was most needed. Not that matters went particularly well, even so.

Grant cut himself on a piece of ragged fiberglass, turning too quickly in response to a sudden noise. He managed to smile, though, even when the bandage that Peyton rigged for his arm soaked through with blood.

"A mere flesh wound!" he teased, shooing the worried girl aside with a bit of Monty Python. "I've 'ad worse!"

Peyton bit her lip, but smiled back.

"Keep an eye on it, Grant, and if the bleeding worsens, or you start to feel faint, for God's sake, tell someone! Got it?"

Grant Bryce had blondish-brown hair and mischievous blue eyes. He looked like a kid, proud of his scar and too hyped with adrenaline to back down.

"Yes, mommy!" he joked, while the ash fell, the ocean thundered and his bandage dripped.

Because she was needed elsewhere, Peyton tightened the bandage a little, then clasped her friend's shoulder and got back to business. Brick and Bambi needed help digging the ship's captain free of his wrecked bridge. His right leg was broken along with the hip, but he could move and speak somewhat. It took all four remaining contestants and Shane the cameraman to haul him loose. All that amateur tugging had to hurt like anything, but the captain stayed white-faced and quiet until they worked him out from under an instrument panel. _Then_, he thanked them and passed out.

The cabin steward was next, and fortunately not much injured beyond a fractured wrist. He'd been in the galley with the ship's cook, waiting for Vann to call for dinner clean-up and a fresh drink. On the other hand, the cook was unconscious, his broad forehead striped by a large, ugly welt. The jut of his left arm looked strange, but the big man didn't flinch or cry out when touched, so no one could tell if it was broken, or just dislocated.

"We've got to hurry," Brick said to the others, as they bore the man's limp form to their staging area, the now weirdly-angled bridge. "Those aftershocks are coming faster, and I don't want to be here if another wave hits."

Beside him, helping to support the cook's left arm and shoulder, Bambi Laughlin nodded.

"Me either…" she gasped (for the injured man was quite heavy and their footing uncertain). "But… what if… there's someone left... who needs help?"

Brick gave her a little half-shrug in reply, subtly shifting his grip to take more of the cook's weight.

"I dunno. We'll make another trip through the wreck and call for attention, but there's only so much blind digging we can do, Hon."

'Hon'… as in honey. He'd called her '_honey'!_ Bambi almost collapsed, only just not dropping her share of the poor cook.

As luck would have it, there _was_ another survivor: Jason Vann, himself. His cabin had folded in on him, but left the frightened host largely untouched, except for some bruising and scrapes.

"HELP!" he screamed, upon waking up to shuddering darkness and choking stench. "Rico! Captain Lockhart! Get me out of here, _immediately!_ What the hell's the matter with you people? What am I paying you for?"

Forty feet away, Bambi, Peyton, Shane and Grant looked to Brick Sampson, who heaved an exhausted sigh.

"We've got to try," he told them. "Do any of you want to run for safety and spend the rest of your lives knowing that you left a man to die?" Even a man like _that_.

Bambi touched his hand, and forced a tight little smile.

"I'll help," she announced, "unless it gets too dangerous in here. Then I think we should go, Brick."

"My name's Paul," he replied, turning to head deeper into the wreck. "Paul Floyd Sampson. Brick is… I dunno… I guess I was trying to sound all Hollywood, or something, but now it just seems…"

"As fake as 'Bambi'?" she asked, grabbing for the solid strength of his arm when another small quake jolted the derelict yacht.

"Yeah," he admitted, without time to say more. They were too busy for small talk; too busy following the noise of Vann's strident shouts, their path through carnage and ruin illuminated by the narrow beam of a flashlight.


	15. 15: Rapid Response

First, minor edit.

**15: Rapid Response**

_Tracy Island-_

Jeff would have liked to lie down. He didn't feel well, and remaining upright and functional was difficult in the face of mounting challenges from Earth and sea, alike. The aftershocks continued; never powerful enough to bring down a properly reinforced building, but more than enough to sever an underground power line and shut down the main generator.

The island's computer system automatically re-routed remaining electrical power to the communications center and hangars, so the folk within sensed hardly more than a faint shift, a crackle and flickering. Then… back to normal, more or less. But, in the fifth aftershock, hangar one sustained serious damage. A horizontal crack shifted the bottom third of the launch tube over six inches eastward. Several maintenance bots were crushed and a loading crane collapsed across the launch pad in a screeching, sparking tangle. And all at once, Thunderbird 1 was homeless.

Once again, the island's inhabitants and computer initiated repairs, but more trouble struck before they'd quite absorbed the last blow. The air-conditioning system, choked with ash and detritus, failed completely. There were old-style ceiling fans here and about, but these could only stir the dank, stuffy air, not filter and cool it. Nor could the windows be opened, without letting in a storm of fumes and smoke.

Jeff didn't like to do it, but he ordered all non-essential personnel out of the office to lower the tension and temperature.

"Stay together," he said to Grandma, Fermat and Elspeth, "And keep in close contact. I hate like hell to say this, but we may have no _choice_ but to evacuate."

…not with their own mountain beginning to seethe and rumble, and a WASP cruiser nearby.

"In that case, we convert to standard refugee mode: innocent, grateful and confused. Understood? Fermat… Ms. Morgan… Mother?"

The boy and plump lady's maid nodded, Elspeth mouthing a short,

"Aye, sir. Perfectly."

But Grandma Tracy scowled up at her iron-willed son and refused to be moved, or commanded.

"I'll leave when _you_ do, Jeffery Connal," she snapped, "not a hare's breath sooner than that! And watch your tone. You ain't got so big I can't take a strap to that ass, boy."

Reflecting that it was never a good idea to employ relatives (especially one's parent) Jeff replied,

"Mother, we don't have time to argue about this. If the situation is serious enough to warrant evacuation, though… I promise to leave, too. Deal?"

Victoria's lifted chin and folded arms relaxed just a bit. She even smiled somewhat, proud and straight as though she'd stood wrapped in a buffalo robe at the door of her own lodge.

"Deal. So long's you've got a decent fall-back plan for them boys."

Jeff Tracy's expression was three-quarters wince, one part pained smile.

"I'm working on it, mother," he said to her.

At this point, it was just one damned thing after another, all of them equally bad.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Downstairs, heading for the sea hangar at a ground-eating stride-_

John Tracy had a lot on his mind, and soon enough, more. Wisely, he'd opted to avoid the lifts and people-movers, choosing to take the stairs and maintenance tunnels, instead. Penny and Parker followed behind him, as alert as a pair of low-stalking cats.

You expected ground to be solid, not every so often to twitch, groan and shiver like a very old space station. No such luck today, though. The astronaut's nerves seemed to extend about three feet past his actual body, leaving him hyper-aware and intensely focused.

Little signs, picked up subconsciously, led him to stop in his tracks and bid the others hold tight to the metal stair rails, just before another aftershock hit. The tunnel shook and the metal staircase hummed counterpoint… but it held. The lights flickered and something else (air conditioner, maybe) cut entirely off.

John relaxed the arm he'd flung around Penelope. Stupid reaction, anyhow. Had the staircase collapsed beneath them, they'd have plunged like his mother had, all those years ago. But a dumber reaction followed. He kissed the top of her head, and then let her go.

"It's okay," John lied.

She smiled and nodded, pretending to believe him. Parker allowed as how he'd,

"…feel a good bit safer, puttin' out t' sea, Milaidy,"

So, John set off again, trying to plan ahead while staying focused (And _damn,_ but he could have used a wrist-mounted checklist. Well, wishes get granted in odd ways, sometimes).

Their quivering staircase ended some fifty feet later at the sea hangar's access tunnel, beside a staticky comm screen and print-locked door. John's ID chip warmed as he stepped off that last metal stair and onto the perma-crete floor. From habit, he glanced at the screen and…

…was immediately transported somewhere else. A nowhere and nowhen that existed outside of reality; part cyberspace, part shared consciousness, all Five. The landscape was familiar, being pebbled seashore with tall pines and taller mountains, a picnic table and far-off people. He'd been there before.

Now, though, the sky glinted dark and endless, streaked with wild packets of shooting data. To his right, the sea formed a perfect zeta-function wavescape centered upon an infinitely tall crest, maybe half a mile from shore.

His internal avatar wore a yellow-and-black NASA hardsuit. Hers flickered like a lavender phantom, yellow-eyed and dancing with vivid copper lights. John set his helmet down upon the picnic table's splintery surface.

"Five, what the hell?" he demanded, speaking over a rising wind, while that threatening wave crest rumbled and spumed. "I don't have time to talk, right now."

Her avatar grew distorted for an instant or so, its outline blurring and jumping at the edges. Then a flurry of quick packets shot into her from above, and she firmed again.

'_John Tracy must exchange data with Five.'_

Damn it, why now? His consciousness was pinned here, while God-knows-what was going on outside. Had his body tumbled to the ground, leaving Penny and Parker to carry on, alone? John reached impatiently forward, as though to seize the shimmering girl-thing.

"Five, whatever it is can goddam wait. I've got to…"

It was then that his computer, his creation and devoted companion, employed a truly dirty trick. Five had access to the mind of John Tracy, an access forged over many previous timelines. Like most analog lifeforms, his wetware possessed a distinct and easily manipulated pleasure center.

Knowing this, Five created a new backdoor and a new pathway, then stimulated this center, releasing more dopamine than any chemical substance or physical experience could possibly match. All at once, he was flooded with absolute peace, warmth and happiness, trapped in a physically impossible, long-lasting high. Needless to say (and quite effectively), she had his attention.

'_John Tracy is free of error. John Tracy will direct the activities of Five. Input required for the following switch points.'_

A large and complex 3-D web unfolded in his mind. Not a problem. Decision flowed with perfect smoothness as John selected here 'Not', there 'And', a little later 'Controlled Not', or again a quantum option through many logic gates, at once. Like Virgil would compose music or Gordon swim a race, John programmed his computer, all the while feeling safe, comfortable and deeply, intensely pleased. She stated, once he'd finished,

'_Input received and run, John Tracy. Response aligned at focci (1/2 plus 14.135i), (1/2 plus 21.022i), (1/2 plus 25.011i) and nexus 42.'_

The Riemann wavescape seemed to change, offshore. John noticed this, as he saw, felt and accepted everything, just then; calmly, and with absolute clarity of thought. But Five went on, saying,

'_The vessel design of analog lifeform Dwight Bremmerman-Hiram Hackenbacker-Brains is flawed. Error exists in power flow and force shield frequency modulator. Error has gone unreported due to prototype status of project Barracuda. Vessel will not function without significant patch and redesign.'_

Okay, understood… but at this point, had Five told him that the entire multiverse was about to collapse like an observed wave function… like an avalanche-struck cable car… John would have had a hard time getting worked up about it. You caught the knives as they were thrown, or else you didn't.

She touched him, then, her avatar's glinting hand passing completely through his 'body', sending forth pulses of something far outside previous experience.

'_John Tracy is without detectable flaw. John Tracy will debug vessel design. Five will run programs as directed and await further command.'_

With that, nowhere faded around him like a pleasant dream, details forgotten, but mood softly lingering.

Outside, it seemed to Penelope that John had tripped over that last shuddering stair. He was clumsy at times, her darling. She put forth a hand to steady him, but John was too swift to be caught. He pivoted suddenly, seized the startled operative and pulled her toward him.

She got kissed, then, deep and demandingly. Need was there, with a scorching animal hunger and something else that, if not quite love, would certainly do. Parker busied himself with pretending to check his weapons and equipment, accidentally positioning his stout form to block the comm screen's view of the intertwined pair.

Crushed between her tall paramour and the cracked wall, Penelope responded eagerly, clutching him close. Despite their current situation, she'd have welcomed more, but the kiss ended with ice-water suddenness. John stepped away, seeming elsewhere absorbed and deep in thought.

"Yeah," he said at last, to no one in particular. "I can fix that."

Then he noticed Penny, again. With a brief smile, he reached around to slap her posterior, saying,

"Let's go, beautiful. I've got a job to do."

Penelope was left fuming. Abandoned once more, she smoothed her mussed hair and grudgingly followed him through the hangar door. To the end of her days, Penelope Creighton-Ward would never really comprehend John Tracy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 1-_

Scott flew with one ear and part of his mind tuned to his distant fiancée, and most of the rest focused on staticky, fading news from back home. The scenario didn't look good, with failing power and collapsing hangars making evacuation increasingly likely.

One thing at a time, though. Scott gripped the controls, his handsome face set like stone. First, he'd deliver the refugees to a small airport in Santiago, Chile. Then, he'd turn-and-burn for St. Martin and home. Plenty of time to worry about where he was supposed to hole up and refuel, later.

Through the main view screen, Scott stared at a choppy sea, pink sky and innocent clouds, but the rising dawn held no more answers than his bone-tired mind, or Cindy's WNN broadcast.

"…_seismic disturbances continue to plague the south Pacific, sending three-meter waves crashing into already hard-hit regions of Tahiti, Hawaii, New Zealand, Australia and Samoa. The brave personnel of WASP and International Rescue are doing all that they can to provide relief, Peter, as are the world's various navies. We send them our love and good wishes, hoping that all's well."_

Scott's hands and stomach unclenched a little. Love might not resolve much, and it certainly wasn't all that mattered in life, but it sure helped keep you going. Part of that broadcast had been meant for Scott alone, and the thought made him smile.

The desert coast of Chile hove into view a few minutes later, silver with mist, striped by the long violet shadow of the Andes. Almost there.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

Virgil Tracy had never been happier to see a WASP vessel in all his life. Scorpion broke water like a surfacing leopard seal. Her prow shot up and out, followed by a sleek, hybrid body that shone wetly grey in Thunderbird 2's powerful floodlights. She was about a hundred feet long and straight as a spear, a near-surface sub that converted within five minutes to a stable rescue platform.

Virgil set his comm to WASP's general purpose channel and called over,

"Welcome to the party, from Thunderbird 2. Good to see you, Scorpion. You guys feel free to jump in and choose a dance partner, because there's too many wallflowers bobbing around down there for just one man."

The comm crackled once, and then he heard,

"_Thunderbird 2, this is Captain Strangeways, commanding __WNS Scorpion__. Thank you for the welcome, Gentlemen, but we'll take it from here."_

Virgil shook his head, at once flying, supervising Gordon, attending to news from home and listening to Strangeways. Impatiently, he pressed the comm button.

"Sorry, captain. No can do," he said, peering out through the main view screen at slanting ash-fall and troubled water. Scorpion had begun launching zodiacs.

"Even if we felt like letting you do the rest, it wouldn't be safe to just pick up and leave. Thunderbird 2's, um… footprint, I guess… is the only thing keeping those waves at a reasonable height. If I leave now, your rescue boats will be swamped."

Football player, artist and musician; Virgil Tracy didn't like to fight, but when forced into battle, he rarely lost. A brief pause greeted his warning. Then,

"_Understood, Thunderbird 2. Your continued presence is accepted, but I'm going to have to ask you to withdraw your swimmer from the water. There's no way I can tell how skilled he is, and the actions of an amateur rescuer could place my people in jeopardy. Get him out of there."_

Virgil's jaw dropped. Literally, the wad of gum he'd been chewing fell straight out of his mouth and onto the instrument panel. Stuck there, too.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" the big man muttered. _"Amateur?_ You people have any idea how many times that kid's gone out on rescues? How many medals he's won?"

Fortunately, he was talking to himself and the busily chirping cockpit, not to an open comm. Otherwise, WASP might have learned more than was safe.

"_Thunderbird 2, do you read?"_

Switching channels, Virgil called in to Island Base. Let Scorpion wait. He needed consult, right the hell _now_.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Ile St. Martin-_

Walking wasn't easy when the crumpled floor was tilted at a 40-degree angle, and you had to keep grabbing in darkness for handholds. Worse, the surfaces tended to buckle and shift, right along with the restless ground outside.

"Listen, Brick," Grant urged their leader, "I say we find Vann and get him out in the next ten minutes, or else we leave. This is getting crazy."

Through the hull, they could hear and feel a maddened ocean attacking the shoreline; devouring it.

"Yeah, okay," Brick agreed, briefly lit by Shane's flashlight. "Ten minutes, tops."

The other thing they could hear was Jason Vann, screaming demands for immediate help at the top of his ash-scarred lungs.

"Damn it! Get me out of here, or I'll sue you right down to your fillings! I _own_ you!"

Hell of a guy, Jason Vann. Brick, Grant and Peyton had to force open a locked hatch and pry up a section of collapsed teak decking to reach him. No easy task with exhausted limbs, blurring vision and sulfur-burned throats, but they kept at it.

The back half of the yacht had been slanted and corkscrewed by the force of its launch and landing. The young rescuers actually had to climb upward to get to their trapped host, clinging to anything remotely stable while they struggled to free him. The cabin door yielded after a few minutes, but the chamber within had just about flattened itself around a squirming and furious Vann. Drenched and filthy, he'd lost a green contact lens together with most of his composure.

"I said _hurry_ _up_, or I'll make sure the best gig any of you ever get is folding balloon animals at a birthday party!"

Plenty of motivation, there. Brick hesitated to just yank him loose, though. What if the man was pinned down further back, and didn't realize it? Could they end up tearing him in half, or something?

Just below Brick, Bambi clung tight to a bulkhead rail and wiped sweat from her eyes. Honestly, she was terrified; scared enough to scream aloud, her frayed nerves clutched together like a cheap jacket. Peyton must've felt the same way because she shifted her grip long enough to reach back and pat Bambi's trembling shoulder.

"Two days from now," she promised, "we'll be miles away from here and laughing about all this, you wait and see."

Bambi smiled at her confident friend, thinking that they sure bred some tough daycare workers in Oregon. But,

"Yes, _Sir,_ Mr. Vann. We're on it," Brick was saying, as he worked an arm across their angry host's chest, then braced himself against the hatch frame and commenced to lean backward. "We'll have you out of here in no time flat."

Then, at the worst possible moment, the ground heaved again, causing their slippery footing to lurch. Jason Vann panicked, feeling the deck and bulkheads closing upon him like a set of raggedly-toothed jaws. He kicked free of his prison, shoving Brick aside to wriggle free and grab at the solid doorframe.

Thrust violently outward, Paul 'Brick' Sampson lost his balance and fell fifteen feet, landing with a sickening crash against the jaggedly fractured bulkhead below. Shane's light swung through the dusty blackness until it found him, lying there ashen-pale and terribly still. Bambi, Grant and Peyton had already started down, leaving Jason Vann to make his own way, or not.

"Brick, we're coming! Hang on!" Grant shouted, his own small wounds entirely forgotten. Bambi was too worried to utter more than a short whimper, but climb down she could, and did.

"I can't feel my legs," the young man gasped, while Vann shouted for light, above.


	16. 16: Decisions

Thanks for reviewing, Tikatu and Eternal Density. More minor edits...

**16: Decisions**

_Ile St. Martin, in a ruined and sagging yacht-_

Rushing is bad. Rushing leads to mistakes; but let _your_ friend fall… let him lie puzzled and broken beneath you… and let's see you hold safety in mind. Certainly Grant didn't, or Bambi and Peyton, either. All they did, keeping to the ash-flecked and quivering beam of Shane's flashlight, was rush downward.

From handrail to hatch sill to twisted bulkhead they dropped, ignoring sharp metal and battery acid like the universe was a giant video game and they had an endless supply of lives.

Below them, Brick Sampson lay stunned and abruptly helpless. Above, too concerned for himself to risk starting down, Jason Vann cursed and complained. But even the light-wielding cameraman ignored him, leaving _Survival's_ host to cling to the fallen man's former perch like a treed and yowling cat.

Bambi had to scramble like mad, but she made it down. She was the first to reach Brick, talking to him the whole time and only afterward thinking about all those brief slips and near-misses. Things didn't improve much, up close, though. He lay sprawled upon a sharply folded section of decking, part of the crew's quarters that had been snapped into ragged peaks of wood, metal and fiberglass by the force of a rampaging wave.

Brick kept quiet as she approached, holding tight with his hands to the wreckage around him. Calm, because there seemed no other way to be. Not in this nightmare.

"I'm here, Paul," she babbled, carefully testing a section of tilted deck before putting her weight on it. "Don't worry about a thing. I work in a dent… in a doctor's office and I'm trained in first aid."

He sort of smiled at her, then, as Bambi crouched beside him to check for damage. No sensation or movement in the legs and feet, apparently, but no spurting blood or open wounds, either; that was something.

"It's going to be okay, Paul. International Rescue's on their way, and they'll get you straight to a hospital."

Peyton joined her a few moments later, taking those last few weight-shifting steps as cautiously as Bambi had. No sense collapsing the deck and sending Brick tumbling still lower. Once safely down, she gripped the dental hygienist's shoulder and touched Brick's strained and dirty face.

"Grant's almost here. That arm's giving him trouble, is all. Bambi, if you'll keep an eye on Paul, I'll see what I can scrounge for a backboard and lashing." Then, "Hang in there, tough guy. We'll get you out of here in no time, I promise."

"I won't leave him," Bambi replied stoutly, gazing up at her friend. "We get out together, or not at all."

Brick was too busy not screaming to say much, but he understood what they'd said, and took comfort. On the other hand, _everyone_ heard Vann, who'd begun scrambling down at last because Shane was headed away, and he didn't want to be left in the dark.

"Wait! Not so fast! I can't see up here, and I'm the one signing your paychecks! Damn it, slow down, Poston!"

With one contact lens gone, Vann was finding it hard to gauge distances. Shane didn't wait, though. If anything, the tattooed and scruffy cameraman sped up, and he defiantly kept the beam of his light angled toward the contestants, not Jason Vann.

_"Shut up," _he muttered, but his boss failed to notice.

"Poston, I'm talking to you! Give me some light up here! What's-his-name isn't going anywhere! He's crippled!"

Bambi tried to talk over him, so that Paul wouldn't hear, but Vann was too loud, too insistent, to drown out. Whatever his faults, he had a fine set of lungs. And though Jason Vann had made his fortune anticipating audience response, he certainly missed, this time.

"Get me out first, and I'll see that you get a raise," the host panted, lowering himself to stand beside Shane, who'd paused to rest on a shattered counter top. The cameraman's teeth ground together, but he didn't respond. Not yet.

"I've got more than enough money to solve your little cash flow problems, and I'm too important to be kept waiting, damn you, so…"

That's when Shane Poston shifted his flashlight, spun halfway round and punched Vann in the face with all the fury and pain and sick dread he could clutch in a doubled fist. Vann's head rocked back and his nose broke with a wet _crack_. Reeling, he grabbed at his face with one hand, making snuffing sounds and snorting blood.

"Take that money and shove it up your ass, Mr. Vann," Shane snarled. "In fact, take the contract, too. I _quit."_

They all did.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, in a stuffy and quivering office-_

Jeff was a solitary figure, now, able to concentrate fairly well between aftershocks and call-ins. Not only his sons, but most of the region's official rescue agencies needed coordination and guidance, something International Rescue was able to provide. For the moment, at least. Each small quake and window-rattling ash squall brought the prospect of evacuation a little bit closer. No sense going all the way around the block to borrow trouble, though. Not when he still had options.

Hitting a button on his desktop control panel, Jeff caused strong metal shutters to close over each window and outside door. Might buy a little more time, he thought. Another urgent distress call reached him from St. Martin before the chorus of slamming shutters quite faded. Matters had worsened over there, and the crew and actors who'd been left behind had nowhere to hide from sulfurous wind and scouring ash.

John was on his way with Parker and Lady Penelope, of course, and Scott in Thunderbird 1 would head back as soon as humanly possible, but that didn't help them, _now_.

"I assure you, ma'am…" the elder Tracy replied to one extremely persistant 'Peyton', "…several agents of International Rescue are headed your way. Please remain calm and seek shelter until the boat or aircraft arrives. They'll announce themselves with floodlights and a whistle or horn-blast. In the meantime, stay calm, keep everyone together, and be prepared to evacuate at a moment's notice. Do you understand?"

It was worth asking, because communications were incredibly spotty, even with Thunderbird 3's transmission assistance.

"St. Martin, do you copy?"

_"W… hear you… long as we can. Please hurry!"_

Jeff's heavy brows drew together and his brown eyes stared at the flickering comm screen as though he could make things happen through sheer will power. If this was what John went through on a daily basis, this impotent listening and futile reassurance… then maybe he ought to be rotated out of Thunderbird 5 once in awhile, instead of left there alone for months on end.

"Understood, St. Martin. We'll pick up the pace."

No reply was forthcoming, so he started to contact John, meaning to speed the boy's progress, but _another_ broken call interrupted him, from Virgil, this time. Something about WASP demanding that International Rescue abandon the rescue site.

_"…Not gonna believe this, dad, but…Scorpion… us out, __now__. According…the capt…Gordon's an "amateur". And after all… times we've… them. I don't want… but it's your call, dad. What's the play?"_

Jeff reached for a crystal pitcher and poured himself a glass of water, although the ice within had long since melted. His throat felt terribly, clawed-out dry, and a drink was required before he could grind out another word, lukewarm or not.

"Say again, Virgil? WASP wants us out of the danger zone?"

_"…heard right, dad. They're evicting us. What now?"_

Raking a hand through his hair, Jeff braced himself through another brief aftershock. The important thing was the safety of those civilian crash victims. If WASP had the situation under control, and if IR's presence was actually slowing them down, then the only thing to do was withdraw (but not very far).

"Virgil, have Gordon take Thunderbird 4 and pull away. You and he will monitor the situation without interfering, unless something goes wrong, or another distress call comes in."

It was hard to tell through all that distortion and static, but Virgil seemed disappointed. Had he wanted a fight, when lives were at stake?

_"FAB. I'll… the word to 4… won't like it, though."_

Which fact was entirely beside the point. Gordon was his son and, like all the rest besides John, he'd damn well follow instructions.

"Just pass the order, son, and stay on top of the situation. In the meantime, I'll call WASP and see what I can accomplish by going over _Scorpion's_ head. Tracy, out."

Jeff signed off without awaiting response, and drank the rest of his water. Then, mentally preparing himself for battle, he called up WASP's PacFleet commander.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Shooting through dark water from Tracy Island to Ile St. Martin-_

The Barracuda prototype was a sexy little craft and a dream to handle… in theory. On paper a beautiful concept, in actual metal, force shield and plastic she was hard to control, with a glitching power grid and oddly placed diving planes. Brains had conceived her as a sort of convertible rescue boat/ submarine, and had in fact sold Barracuda's modified plans to WASP, where it pretty much functioned as advertised.

Seventy feet long, she was powered by a trio of inboard water-jet engines and a tightly shielded nuclear battery. She had hydrofoil capabilities and could function as a fast surface boat with her sleek hood retracted. With the streamlining cover in place, however, the Barracuda became a medium-depth submarine, able to glide effortlessly below the worst weather, waves or oil rig fires that disaster could throw at her. Sort of. Truthfully, she was giving Parker fits to drive and John worse ones to reconfigure.

The operative maintained a stream of blistering cockney oaths as he fought to keep Brains' "neither fish nor fowl" craft level in choppy, debris-laden water. Lightly-screened intake valves clogged repeatedly, robbing the craft of motive power. Worse yet, a deep and jarring vibration rang through the metal hull with each course change and battering current. Nice.

On the bright side, John soon found a way to immerse himself in work. His body might be pressed to its seat straps in a small, rattling cockpit, but his mind was very much elsewhere; sliding variables, aligning pointers and sifting character strings like glowing beach sand.

Penny might have touched him once or twice… he thought he sensed her perfume… but John was too busy to care. There was an almost-cyberlink aboard ship (close cousin to the one that allowed Gordon to "feel" his underwater surroundings) and the device opened Barracuda's computer systems wide. It gave him an almost physical doorway, one that John was quick to seize and access.

From inside, he could program with inhuman speed and debug all those glitches almost as fast. Inside, his commands, calls and subroutines had genuine form and substance. Yeah, the craft's power flow sucked and the shield generator was weak. And yeah, he could fix it, though it meant scrapping and rewriting everything below the user interface while finding some way to keep the ship running. Nothing like a challenge, huh? Should have been nearly impossible, but somehow, he already knew where to look for trouble and exactly what to reprogram.

Working fast, John got things almost the way he wanted them, those glittering swarms and comets of data. Then, someone ripped him from his work immersion with a series of light slaps to the head. Penny, saying,

"We've arrived, darling. Your shining moment has come."

Yeah, and pretty much gone, too. Yanked from 4D arrays and nested run commands for a literal, meat-space rescue, it was a grim and out-of-sorts John Tracy who rose and brushed past Penelope.

She halted him with an outstretched hand, as Parker guided their craft through St. Martin's choked and deadly natural harbor. Then, while the deck swayed and the hull vibrated, Penelope stretched up to kiss him, whisper-soft and breathy-warm.

"There. I've stolen back your kiss… and another, besides. You shall be forced to retaliate swiftly, John, or be considered an easy mark."

It was a weird thing to say. Senseless, but kind of funny, and he relaxed enough to smile at her. Carrying on in the same vein (RPG's were good for something, after all) he said,

"Okay. I'll launch my counter-strike before dawn, while the enemy's still in bed."

Must've been the nicest thing he'd said to her all day, because Penny leaned against him like she belonged there, all soft and warm where he wasn't. A giant thud and grinding noise announced their arrival, but Parker turned in his seat, doffed his cap and proclaimed the matter, anyhow.

"Isle o' St. Martin that'll be, Milady… Sir. Or what's left of 'er, at any rate. Might be best to 'urry along, before owt else befalls."

"Thank you, Parker," her ladyship coolly replied. "Just nip off and fetch round my survival gear… there's a good fellow."

John pulled away from her, then, bothered by something he couldn't quite peg. Except… sometimes it seemed like he and Penny had nothing in common but rescues and sex.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Open water, in floodlights and ash-fall and flotsam-toothed waves-_

Virgil had been correct. Gordon fought the command to retreat for all he was worth.

"Y'r havin' me on!" he protested, after helping yet another gasping victim into the rescue basket and strapping him down. Got a mouthful of foul water for his trouble, too. "Fall back? I've four in th' basket already. We're bloody well committed!"

Gordon stared upward at 2's spearing floodlights and vast, ridged belly, but his brother's transmitted voice was adamant.

_"Not my idea, kiddo. It's WASP and dad, so close up shop and get back to your Bird. I'll deliver these people to Scorpion while you drop down to wait below the official theatre of operations. Not too far, though, just in case. Dad's orders."_

Surely, though, he hadn't meant _now._ There were still people in the water, including a desperate woman kicking and flailing toward the basket. One arm appeared to be savagely broken, but still she swam on. WASP and their zodiacs weren't near enough to reach her before she succumbed to floating debris or blood loss. No, her only real chance lay with Gordon Tracy, and damned if he was going to just leave her. So, with a swift, furtive glance at _Scorpion,_ the young swimmer released his grip on Thunderbird 2's spinning basket and plunged in just one more time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, hovering in midair to relay a chorus of crackling signals-_

Okay… there was mad, there was angry, and there was "just won't let the dang thing drop"! So, yeah, he'd made a mistake. Did Brains have to keep hammering at him like he'd sold out to the National Inquirer, or something?

Just a couple of photo-shopped pictures, guys, _sheesh_! And anyways, Alan didn't know what half those words even meant. Like, what the heck was "puerile"? And "rampant narcisi-_what"_? Was Hackenbacker speaking American? Fed up, Alan rolled his blue eyes and interupted the man's ranting.

"Dude, chill! I screwed up, I admit it, but making a federal case out of a few pictures isn't gonna, like, teach me the error of my ways, all right?"

(Here, Alan paused. Reaching into one of his mom's constantly-looped self help speeches, he came up with…)

"I need patience and understanding, not shouted words. For real, I'm at a very fragile age. Love me, and I'll learn."

Brains shook his head, still unconvinced.

"Alan, if y- you spent as much, ah… much time educating yourself as, ah… as thinking up excuses, you'd b- become a major asset to International Rescue. Instead, you've prevented Thunderbird 3 from going to, ah… to St. Martin, and endangered many l- lives, including those of, ah… of your brothers, who now m- must take further risks to cover the gap. John may be able to h- handle the prototype rescue boat, and Scott might be, ah… be alright flying straight b- back from Chile without any rest. Or not. It's on th- them, now, because we _can't_ _help_."

For a long while, the only sounds in 3's cockpit were beeping instruments, raking wind, the busy comm and Hiram Hackenbacker's rough, angry breathing. For a long while, Alan Tracy felt very small, indeed.


	17. 17: Sea Fire

First edit. Thanks, ED, Tikatu, Magrat and Cathrl for your reviews.

**17: Sea Fire**

Rock layers shifted and bent. The magma bubble paused in its upward surge, like a monster straining at adamant links. Bound, not defeated.

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_Thunderbird 1, returning from a quick drop-off in Chile-_

Scott would have liked to call Cindy. But just like him she was busy and probably had more important things to do than worry about loved ones. Nature of the business, whether your work was reporting or rescues.

So the handsome young man, a former fighter pilot and Medal of Honor recipient, did what heroes usually do; he pushed personal concern to the rear of his head and kept flying, chasing sunset into nightfall, back to the danger zone. People needed him, and that was all that mattered to Scott Tracy. All he'd _allow_ to matter.

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_Island Base, where the ground shook, and the air stropped ashen claws-_

Evacuation was fast moving from 'maybe' to 'final option', but Jeff had things to do. By some miracle getting a decent link, he contacted WASP's PacFlt commander-in-chief, Admiral Ron Gaunt. If he'd expected sweet reason to go along with the strong comm signal, though, Jeff was sorely disappointed. There was no negotiation at all, and his seamed face in the screen glow quickly took on a troubled and hunted expression. Admiral Gaunt was not in the mood to bargain.

"Mister," said the work-rumpled officer, leaning toward his own desk comm, "I'll be blunt, because you've got to be firm with idiots. From my end, 'International Rescue' is nothing but trouble, a dangerous waste of men and resources!"

Jeff cut in at once, protesting hotly,

"Admiral, I can assure you that we receive no funds whatsoever from _any_ nation or…"

A good beginning, but Gaunt wasn't having any. Not, at least, from a deeply misguided angel of mercy.

"No, 'Mister X'. I'm not talking about federal graft. What your piss-ant organization does that jerks my chain is to flout all the international laws that constrain _genuine_ relief agencies, while diverting personnel and technology from WASP, NASA and the military. You're a malignant cancer wrapped up in Robin Hood theatrics, and you're in my way. Captain Strangeways is one-hundred-percent right. Get on that comm, call back your amateurs, and let _Scorpion_ do her job!"

This was a bitter pill, washed down with alum and arsenic. International Rescue took nothing from anyone. It was a privately-funded family operation that went in where others dared not… and maybe, there lay the trouble. The crash site was easily accessible to WASP, its victims simple to rescue. Like bobbing for apples, really. All that Thunderbird 2 had done was get there first. And surely, Jeff Tracy had better things to do than squabble about precedence. So he said, just before the island's auxiliary generator cut off,

"Admiral, you're dead wrong, but what matters here are the people in danger. That said, if you've got the situation under control, I'll send my agents somewhere else."

There was that capsized sailboat, still, with seventy miles away an entire tribe of Neolithic islanders refusing help from anyone but their carved gods. But most of all, Jeff was a patient man. He rarely gave with one hand unless 'plan B' was tightly clutched in the other. And rather than bull forward, he could always find a way around.

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_In the water, almost too mired and worn to swim-_

Gordon ignored his brother's startled questions, focusing instead on cleaving a path through dark, heaving muck. The woman was a fighter, too, and the way she kept on, broken arm or no, spurred Gordon's fierce efforts to reach her. It would have been a coward's act to turn away, no matter the risk to himself.

Murky waves continually lifted and dropped him. Not terribly far, but enough to make line-of-sight a sometime thing and necessitate several rapid course changes. The sea's acid stench crept through his mask and respirator, making it hard to draw breath.

He reached her at last with no time for anything but quickly joined hands and a sharp tug. Like everything else… the water, the air… she was grey with ash and shaking. Gordon let a brief hand-squeeze stand in for comforting words. Instinctively, he then rolled himself into the right position and her along with him.

There was tired, there was fagged-out, bloody well drained, and there was Gordon; currently all of the above. He hadn't much swimming left in him, but fortunately the basket was there, brought close once again by Virgil's quick action. Despite wind and engine noise, Gordon heard its shrill beeping from behind, reached up a hand and took hold.

One of the male victims roused himself enough to lend assistance, and together they got the injured woman inside. Gordon, too, for he was past exhaustion by now. Past anything much but clinging to rubberized metal like a bit of damp leaf.

She needed further help, though; splotches of wild scarlet were starting to leak through that coating of pasty ash. While the rescue basket arced through floodlights and gritty wind, Gordon yanked a first aid kit from its mounts and got back to work.

What you learn in live-fire simulation, you never forget, no matter the pressure. Working by rote, Gordon bandaged and splinted the shattered limb, saving the woman's life a second time. She clutched at his weight belt until the job was done, forcing herself to stay quiet. Then she fainted, just as Thunderbird 2's basket came to a rattling, sliding halt upon _Scorpion's_ foredeck. Enemy territory, and no mistake.

Heart pounding, Gordon tucked a blanket around the unconscious woman and got to his feet. Hurrying figures emerged from the ash-fog, entering 2's illumination to seize and bear off the rescued victims. They said nothing at all to Gordon, who managed to hold himself erect on the pitching surface, maintaining a semblance of readiness. _Scorpion_ had security personnel, though, and their attitudes were markedly different.

"Sir, step out of the basket!" one demanded, gesturing with a police-style riot baton. Gordon's refusal was less aggressive than 'too tired to move', but they didn't know that… or possibly didn't care. With the basket's gate unlatched, all they had to do was lean forward and reach for him.

"_Gordon, rapid extraction!"_ Virgil snapped over his ear-piece. _"Hold tight, kiddo!"_

And that was all the warning he got before the basket lurched violently upward, plucked from the deck by Thunderbird 2's shrieking climb. Armed sailors were shed in every direction, while Gordon was hurled to the floor. The basket spun up and away. Shouting for back up, someone fired a Taser, while someone else cast a grappling hook. They missed, took fresh aim and would have tried again, but a word from Captain Strangeways stopped both efforts short.

"_Let him go,"_ the man broadcast aloud_. "There's no room for an able-bodied prisoner when we've got people still in the water and a stranded billionaire to collect."_

Captain Strangeways' amplified voice rang harsh and loud over the muttering wind. This round, he'd won, but there was more to come. Like a well-trained soldier, he'd do what he had to, and Heaven help the cosseted, overfed playboy that politics and world finance had forced across his path.

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_Thunderbird 3, still hovering on perpetual comm-cast detail-_

Hackenbacker was busy handling about a million bad situations. On the bright side, he was therefore too busy to mess with Alan, who felt like warmed-over crap. The boy wanted to talk; wanted someone to ease the sting of Brains' sharp words. Not that he had many options. Gordon and John were out there doing things, both of them, so Alan left for the passenger lounge to call Fermat.

Getting through wasn't easy, but Alan had always been stubborn. Now he held the line until Fermat picked up, looking like a pale and worried little owl in a metal-framed hole.

_"A- Alan! You… guys okay? How's m- my dad?"_

"Fine. Great. Saving the world one preachy sermon at a time, thanks for asking!" Then some little nugget of concern made him add, "How 'bout you and T?"

Fermat's snowy image smiled a little, but not very happily.

_"We're good, Alan. J- just wondering whether we'll have to leave base, or not."_

Yeah… Brains had mentioned something about a possible evacuation, but the idea seemed too weird to take in. Especially when genuine, serious stuff was happening here, to _him._

"No problem," Alan decided, sitting back on one of Thunderbird 3's launch couches and putting his feet up. "A few little earthquakes never hurt us before, right?"

Over the comm, Fermat did his best to look upbeat and competent. These earthquakes weren't so little, or few, though.

_"S- Sure, Alan. Whatever y- you… say. Anything else?"_

"No doubt! Like, what the heck's gotten into everybody about those dang pictures? I never even used my own handwriting, just fancy print and a couple of stupid initials! What gives?"

Fermat's blue eyes narrowed, and he fiddled with his glasses, because it gave him time to think.

_"Nothing. They're j- just… worried in general, I guess. I m- mean…I can spread the word that… you pretty much did y- your…photo-shop alterations with the digital equivalent of a… ch- chainsaw and glue-gun."_ (Having shrugged his way through a stack of possible pictures, Fermat had reason to know.)

Alan grunted defensively. Ignoring the groan of wind and stressed metal like he did pretty much everything else, the boy said,

"So, I made a few changes. When did giving Mother Nature some help turn into a dang capital offense?"

Fermat never replied. The call was cut off, but Brains was probably just having trouble sorting out all of those signals. Just in case, though, Alan got his depressed, sorry, butt off the couch and went forward to check.

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_Ile St. Martin-_

Between temblors, Bambi and the others were able to get Brick on a sheet of ripped paneling and back through the derelict yacht. It had been tough going before; now, with a paralyzed friend, it was nearly impossible. At least Jason Vann kept a low profile, trudging after them with an occasional, moistly snuffled curse.

Bambi held one corner of the panel-stretcher, by Brick's head. Shane Poston struggled along across from her, holding a splintered wooden edge with one hand and his flashlight with half the other. Peyton was down at the foot, diagonally, with Grant lifting more than he should have at bottom left. By short, awkward heaves, they made progress, halting whenever the ground and wreckage twitched to life. Nothing to do then but wait with wide eyes, and reassure Brick that all would soon be well.

"We're almost there, Paul," Bambi whispered softly, using his real name to comfort him. "All we've got to do now is… is say hello to International Rescue!"

She couldn't help the partly hysterical tears that flooded her eyes and roughened her voice, for help had finally arrived. Three figures in form-fitting protective gear climbed through the hull breech, two men and a woman. They had proper equipment and emergency aid supplies, and Bambi Laughlin had never been happier to see anyone in all her 22 years.

"Omigod… omigod… thank you! Thank you for coming!"

"It's quite all right, dear. Part of the job, as it were," the female rescuer responded from behind her mask and reflective goggles.

Her accent was British, Bambi thought, too distracted to really care. The two men had moved forward, helping _Survival's_ cast to get Brick outside, where conditions were less claustrophobic, if uglier. Glancing around for their plane or ship, Bambi first squinted and coughed, then gave up. That sulfurous wind yet blew from the east, where a sullen red glare tagged the horizon. Still didn't look like dawn, though.

Said the confident Brit,

"Our vessel is just a stretch of the legs down slope, dear, where you'll find your rescued yachtsmen already stowed and attended to."

No doubt, the woman continued, but Bambi had stopped listening, for things were happening. The other two agents were shifting Paul Sampson onto a backboard and then to some kind of floating stretcher.

"One… two… and _lift,"_ the taller of them commanded, after they'd slipped the board under Paul and carefully strapped him in place. Seconds later, Brick was positioned atop the anti-grav stretcher and almost home-free. Ash blew into his face, though, making him cough and possibly worsening his injury.

Without really thinking about it, the taller man pulled off his own mask and goggles, and placed them on Brick, fastening the air tank, as well. Naturally, Bambi looked at him. She did a startled double-take, and so did Peyton. A slow, warm smile spread over the dental hygienist's face at the sight of those dark blue eyes and classically chiseled features. Impulsively, she scooted over and kissed her "island hero".

"Thanks again, 'ART'," Bambi whispered, adding mischievously, "The candy was good, but you looked a lot beefier in the pictures!"

…Which confused the hell out of John Tracy, and earned him truckloads of frost from Penny, later. Terrific. Add yet another chapter to the ongoing strangeness of women (and throw in the pleasant memory of a mysterious, unprovoked kiss). Still, he shook the matter off. Nothing else happened until the show's battered host put in his own desperate bit. Taking hold of John's left arm, Jason Vann whispered,

"Listen, pal, I don't know if you're aware who I am, but there are some very important people who'll pay top dollar for my safe return to the States. If you know what's good for you, you'll put me in touch with Omni Entertainment, and…"

Irritated, John twitched away from the man's clutching hand. Vann tried for another grab, snorting blood and outrage.

"I'm serious! This is my final offer, your last chance to avoid a law suit!"

The astronaut shrugged off Vann's badly-timed lunge. They faced each other with the reeking harbor as backdrop, its water fish-belly white where it hadn't turned slimy and dark. Once again, Vann began offering money.

_(Unbelievable. 10 to the third power more important things to deal with… sky raining fire and people needing help… yet this whiney jackass still expected first-class, white-glove service.)_ John leveled a brief, very cold stare.

"Mr. Vann," he said, "the last thing you want right now is my undivided attention. Back… the… hell… off."

Something in that icy look must have promised utter ruin and last-shred vengeance because Jason Vann dropped his gaze and stumbled away. Indeed, until interviewed by Cindy Taylor in his private hospital suite, Vann had nothing more to say to anyone.

As for John, he got back to business, recognizing Thunderbird 1's singing roar long before golden floodlights split the darkness.


	18. 18: Fail Safe

Relatively short. Now edited.

**18: Fail Safe**

_Thunderbird 1, nearing Ile St. Martin-_

His landing options weren't just limited, they were throttled blue. There was an airstrip fairly high up the mountainside, or a swatch of rocky and unstable headland close to the sea. The one would be damnably hard for John to reach with wounded and unconscious victims, the other too risky for anything other than sheer, nail-biting necessity. Devil and the deep, blue sea… but time was short and choices few, so Scott picked the headland.

_'No waves,'_ he pled, to anyone and anything that cared to listen. '_Just give me fifteen minutes without a big wave, and I'm out of your hair, promise.'_

Scott cut his floodlights on as he descended toward a rough and shuddering patch of ground. Beside it, the ocean looked like hell and stank like garbage, but threw up nothing fatal, so maybe someone was listening.

He programmed a Morse-coded message into the pattern of his running lights, flashing _'International Rescue'_ brightly enough to be seen a hundred miles from shore. Then he got back to business, forgotting everything but how to reach the deck in one piece.

Any fool can fly a plane, as his grandfather had liked to say. It's _landing_ that makes you a pilot. Granddad might have shaken his head at Scott's jouncing touchdown, but he'd never had to fly in conditions like these, either. Would have been good to have him here, though. In Scott's memories, Grant Tracy had dissolved chaos by his mere, rock-solid presence. But not anymore. Death had closed that door, forever.

Shaking away a host of internal cobwebs, Scott frowned through his comm screen at waves and rocks that were a lot bigger than they'd looked from the air. Maybe, at that, he ought to cut on the force shields…?

"Gotta hurry," he muttered to himself, unstrapping to rise. That's when, of all things, his cell phone began beeping.

"Damn it!" the pilot growled. Maybe in all the rush he'd forgotten to turn it off, but who wanted him, and why _now?_ Furious with himself, Scott attended to his instruments and seat straps with one hand, while fumbling out his phone with the other. In this rushed manner he got it flipped open to find a message from Cindy. No text or voice, just a staticky image of his fiancée, blowing a quick kiss.

Despite his worry, Scott smiled at the outstretched hand and soft 'O' of her mouth. With no time for anything else, he punched up and sent a prepackaged reply; a big red heart with the word 'LOVE' written across it. No names, of course, but she'd figure it out.

Half a minute later, Scott Tracy was out of the cockpit and ready to deplane. Tired, but strangely buoyed. (Love had a way of doing that.) He had to flatten himself to the boarding ladder to avoid being blown away, though the shields blocked most of the water and ash. Fortunately, John was quick to arrive, showing up from seaward, rather than land. Good man.

They shook hands beneath Thunderbird 1, Scott reaching across to clasp his brother's shoulder, but only briefly.

"Got her whipped into shape, I see," he commented, nodding at the _Barracuda_ prototype. The sleek rescue ship lay at anchor beside the headland, occasionally scraping rock as it disgorged smudged and injured contestants. Lady Penelope kept a small trickle of people moving for the rocket plane's cargo ramp, while Parker guided the grav-carts bearing those who needed serious help.

"Yeah," John replied. He didn't have a mask on, for some reason. "We came to an understanding. How're the patches holding up on 1?"

"Like magic. Thanks for coming through, John. This would've been the world's shortest rescue without your help."

His brother looked away, but he'd _never_ known how to take a compliment, so Scott changed the subject. Leaning close to be heard over wind and ocean, he said,

"Got another one for you, little brother. Where the hell am I supposed to go once I get these people dropped off in Chile? The Atacama? I'll be visible for miles! Any chance this nightmare'll calm long enough to let you repair my hangar?"

John shifted his stance, because the ground didn't want to keep still.

"Might take awhile, Scott. The Pacific Rim Alert Centre figures that some of the islands in this chain are no longer dormant."

Scott snorted rudely. Putting forth a hand, palm upward, he caught about three-dozen gritty ash flakes.

"Really?" he said. "You think?"

John smiled. His eyes looked very blue against a scraped and grey-smudged face.

"Seems like a safe bet, yeah. I'll get things back online as soon as possible, provided all this doesn't get blown to hell and back. In the meantime, um… how about the South Pole? It's winter down there, there's plenty of room, and I can put in a call to Fred Darson, to see that you aren't disturbed."

Scott blinked, saying to himself: '_Damn, why didn't I think of that?'_ Antarctica would be perfect; far from civilization, yet close to their friends and comrades at the Amundsen-Scott Station. He could start repairs there, and maybe get some rest.

"You're a genius, little brother." Then, rapidly shifting mental gears, "What about dad and grandma? Heard anything from Base?"

John's expression froze up, the smile vanishing utterly.

"Not since their power failed. The last time we talked, dad said he planned to evacuate."

Bad news. But before Scott could reply, the eastern horizon gave a sudden, bright flash. Then it began to rumble, hoarse, long and low.

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_Tracy Island-_

They had to go, pure and simple, but it hurt like hell to shut things down. With rescues in progress and his sons scattered to the four winds, with ground and sea attacking at every turn, Jeff Tracy found it very hard to walk away from his darkened office. The others expected strength and leadership, though, so Jeff kept his head up and his shoulders back as he closed and locked the hall door. To the flash-lit circle of waiting faces, he said,

"A launch from _Scorpion_ will meet us by the cliff. We're to proceed directly, bringing nothing but essentials. Remember, mother… Kyrano… Ms. Morgan… we're nothing but grateful, clueless refugees. Just damn glad to be picked up."

Jeff didn't bother reminding TinTin or Fermat. In his view, they were merely children. They'd imitate the adults and stay quiet, because that's what young people were supposed to do.

Behind her glasses, Victoria Tracy's restless brown eyes hinted at rebellion. Kyrano and Elspeth were more compliant, the plump lady's maid going so far as to set down her overstuffed purse.

"I've no money t' speak of, an' like as not t'will just be heaved overboard. Might as well be quit o' my baggage now, as later."

Jeff nodded seriously, saying,

"The less we bring, the better. Let's go."

He led them out through the dark house. In the rear foyer they donned coats, goggles and air masks. Jeff picked up a set of new flashlights, had everyone flick their buttons a few times to test the things, and then opened the door and creaking storm shutters. TinTin was crying by then, but nobody noticed; not behind goggles, a lowered head and bitten lip.

"Stay together," Jeff commanded, as he led them outside. "Everyone with a buddy, and if we get separated, head for the lower pool deck!"

There were nods all around. Then a line of paired refugees stepped from the mansion; Jeff with his mother, Kyrano with Elspeth, Fermat with TinTin (doing his best to seem confident). TinTin's hand was locked convulsively tight on the boy's. Tracy Island was all the home she'd ever really known, and leaving it now felt like the end of her world.

They proceeded cautiously, pausing whenever the Earth moved and avoiding walls and trees. Out here the air stank, the wind was unrelenting and the darkness had voice and texture. Objects seemed to leap out at them, sometimes moved by the gusting air, sometimes caught in a swinging light beam.

They crossed the patio, its tiles bare now, because Kyrano had placed all of the outdoor furniture in one of the pools. Out through a gate and along a short path, they dodged flying tree limbs and bunched themselves closer together. Jeff slowed his pace, glancing back often to be certain of the kids… and, maybe... for one more look.

The lower pool deck lay in ruins, blasted apart by Thunderbird 1. Not good, but they could always cordon the area off and blame the damage on lava bombs. At any rate, there were carbonized streaks and chunks of broken concrete everywhere, one in the midst of a smashed flower bed.

Here, Grandma Tracy stopped them. Reaching into the dirt, she pulled forth a big, brown handful of soil. Straightening, Victoria gave a bit to each person present (but saved some for the absent boys), saying loudly,

"All my friends and relations. Every one of you, here and away. Keep this. Hold to it as tight as your mother's hand, 'cause we're coming back."

And whatever the wind said, whatever the sea threatened, her family chose to believe the old woman. They clung to their handful of earth, and they trusted.

There wasn't far to walk afterward, for the beach and cliff stairs were gone. All that remained was a troubled ocean and horn-blaring rescue boat. WASP's, not theirs. The people aboard waved urgently, flashing lights of their own and leaping ashore to hurry the family's progress.

"Just the essentials!" One of them shouted at TinTin, who'd brought along a small bag with her digital picture frame and blue teddy bear. At Fermat's whispered suggestion, she tossed the bag away but tucked the cherished items under her coat, that something of the boys' might come with her. Then, it was time to leave.


	19. 19: Roll the Dice

Thanks, Eternal Density, Tikatu and Magrat, for the welcome input. Second edit.

**19: Roll the Dice**

_Nearly dawn-_

Out in the tortured Pacific, a new island began to arise, born of cracked sea floor and striving lava. Drawing pressure and substance from the balked magma bubble, it broke water in a boiling frenzy of screaming steam and jetting gases; black and crumbling and hotter than hell. Meanwhile, lightning flared, flames danced and giant waves rolled far across the sea.

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_St. Martin-_

It didn't take a rocket scientist… or a fighter pilot… to figure out that somewhere nearby, things were going very wrong, indeed. Just two worried brothers. Scott had automatically shielded his eyes from the blast, but there was a shock wave coming, with wind and water in its thundering wake.

"Get yourself airborne!" John told him, starting to turn away. "Take Parker and Lady Penelope with you, and get off the damn ground."

Scott clamped a big hand upon his brother's shoulder.

"What about you?" he called, having to shout to be heard. Already, bits of glowing stuff were shooting across the sky.

"No room," John replied, twisting free. "Counting you, there's going to be twelve people on board. I'll take the prototype and head out to sea. Don't worry."

Not a great plan, but also not negotiable. Scott had to let him go, making a phone sign with the little finger and thumb of one hand to indicate _'call me'._ Already moving, John nodded understanding, but he'd told his brother only part of the truth. What he _really_ intended was to wait out the worst and then head for Island Base to make repairs.

For his own part, Scott raced back aboard Thunderbird 1 with a tightly-clenched heart, trying not to think how closely the situation matched all of those failed simulations in Rescue-1. Damn it, he was _not_ going to crash! There would be no catastrophic failures! Not in the real world.

He hurried into the hold, to find that Parker and Penny had gotten everyone but John inside and as well buttoned-down as possible. All according to plan, but Penelope's voice and expression were pure, cracked ice as she and Scott headed up front. She'd asked about his brother, and been told of John's decision, which… if he hadn't known better… the fighter pilot would have said made her angry. More likely worried, though, and _not_ about John.

"It's all right, Lady Penelope," he said, reaching over to give her an awkward pat (no easy task while strapping into a seat). "Dad's going to be fine, I'm sure."

She looked at him, and in those wide blue eyes Scott detected real pain and rage and frustrated longing, but only for a moment. Just as John would have done, she very quickly glanced away.

"Yes, indeed," Penny said quietly, as Scott began hurried lift-off procedures. "I'm quite persuaded that he shall be."

But she didn't seem comforted in the least, and Scott was soon too busy fighting updrafts and wind-shear to wonder why.

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_Thunderbird 2-_

He'd hauled Gordon safely aboard, and together the two brothers had cooperated to pick up Thunderbird 4. Virgil ran the pod-drop and collection procedures from his comfortably noisy cockpit, while Gordon braved the ocean once more, this time to reach the yellow Waterbird.

Wind and high seas made for a touchy situation, but Virgil still found time to try calling in to base, and to worry. He got nothing but an earlier text message, and not a good one, either. Probable evacuation, huh? And to _Scorpion,_ of all places. Damn good thing they hadn't caught Gordon, Virgil decided, because then dad and grandma would have had to lead a refugee uprising and prison break. World's first rescue-ship mutiny…

Virgil's thoughts were interrupted when Thunderbird 4 was locked down, below, and Gordon announced that he was on his way up. The big pilot shook his head as he increased power to bring Thunderbird 2 out of the clouds. Gordon sounded beat-to-hell blurry; like he needed not just rest, but a coma. (Not unlike the rest of them, but _still._ Gordon was his responsibility, and always had been.)

"Hey, champ," he smiled, when the swimmer finally wandered up front. Scratch that 'beat-to-hell' thing. Gordon looked like he'd actually have to improve a little to die. But the young man pushed on regardless, grunting at him and slumping into the copilot's seat like a leaky sack.

"Here's the plan," Virgil continued, before Gordon could fumble into his safety straps. "You're gonna head over to the crew cabin and clean yourself up. Then, you're gonna pull down a bunk and get some sleep. No back-talk! I mean it, mister!"

Funny thing was, Gordon was so tired, he saw _two_ Virgils, and couldn't argue with either of them. The words got thought, one at a very slow time, but somewhere between buzzing head and coughing mouth, they kept getting lost. Right, then. Bath and uniform change, at the very least.

A bit later, water happened (in the shower stall, most likely, as it seemed to be quite hot). Then he recalled wobbling about before his clothes and effects locker, reaching for something to wear. Turned out to be Alan's, though, which somewhat explained the tight fit. At last, there was bed, which Gordon fell asleep upon before his red head struck the pillow. Thus, he neither felt, nor saw, the great eruption.

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_Scorpion, leaving Tracy Island-_

They were hustled aboard ship like cattle, because there just wasn't time for courtesy. _Scorpion_ had places to be, and her sudden passengers were expected to adapt without complaint, just like everyone else.

The WASP vessel's interior was a cramped maze of blinking instrumentation, insulated pipes and shivering victims. Klaxons and orders split the air. Sailors sped to their duty stations through her musty passages, some of them glancing aside at the 'rescued playboy' and his pampered entourage.

The shallow dive itself was quick, the most noticeable change being a difference in the sounds which were transmitted through her steel-alloy hull. All at once, they'd taken on a booming, echo-y quality; stretched out and lower in frequency. There were no windows, though, and no way to judge speed and direction. Not for civilian passengers.

Once _Scorpion _was sealed up and submerged, Jeff began looking for a place to squeeze in, and some way to call his sons. With Island Base offline, so were its secure servers. Not even the wrist comms were working. Maybe he could call over an open line? Think up some form of code? Amid all the noise and chaos, he caught at a passing sailor, doing his best to seem grateful and relieved instead of sick to death with worry.

"Excuse me, Seaman… Lefkowicz? _Lev-ko-vitch, _sorry. Pardon the interruption, but I need to speak with your captain, please. There's… there's some urgent business I've got to attend to."

The sandy-haired young fellow started to respond, but he needn't have bothered. Captain Strangeways was already there. All activity then did one of two things, in the case of the WASP sailors; either froze to rigid attention or redoubled in tumbling haste. Apparently, the man was feared by his crew, rather than loved.

Strangeways was short. One of those small individuals with a deep and bitter resentment of taller men. Maybe he had a reason. Maybe he'd been bullied and beaten by larger and better-off others. Then again, maybe he was just an angry, crop-haired bastard. Whatever the case, Strangeways stood well back from Jeff and Lefkowicz, so he wouldn't have to so obviously look up at them. Clasping both hands behind his rigid back, he scowled. Then, speaking in a clipped and over-loud voice, the captain said,

"Mr. Tracy, your financial dealings are going to have to wait. This is a WASP cruiser, not the New York Stock Exchange. Now, stop bothering my crew, find yourselves a berth and stay quiet. That is all."

Grandma had been sitting on a box-like steel pump cover. Now she stood up and pushed her way forward, eyes like two leveled spears.

"Huh!" she grunted, after looking the captain up and down. "Ain't nuthin' so pitiful as a tiny little man with a big ol' bruise on his ego. Prob'ly has to stuff socks in his shorts, too, jus' to fill 'em out."

Jeff smothered his sudden grin behind a pretended cough, while Fermat gave TinTin's hand a quick, triumphant squeeze. Not one of the WASP sailors dared to laugh, but their stiff faces and dancing eyes made it clear that _this_ little story was going down in history.

Strangeways roared something about maintaining their heading, then turned and stamped up the passage. Once he'd gone, Seaman Lefkowicz relaxed enough to utter a short, wondering whistle.

"Phew! I feel bad for the bridge crew!" the young man said to Jeff. "Because they're about to get a dose of pure, flaming hell. He can dish it out, too. You shoulda seen the reaming Security got for missing that IR guy!"

"Missing…?" Jeff probed, very quietly.

"Oh, yeah. It was something to see, lemme tell you!"

Seaman Lefkowicz glanced around the busy passage, spotted an off-duty confederate, and waved her over.

"Bailey, here, was out on deck, too. Weren't you, Bails?"

The dark-haired girl (nineteen… twenty years old, maybe?) nodded solemnly. Lefkowicz didn't give her a chance to speak, though.

"Okay, so we're up there launching zodiacs, and this dumb-ass amateur is out in the water, splashing around and getting in the _real_ crew's way! Do you believe that shit? The Old Man orders International Rescue off site… they had some kinda big plane, too… but this idiot won't listen. He goes back in for another try! Anyhow, that plane I was telling you about swings shit-for-brains and his catch onto the deck, I mean _right beside me! _The medicos off-loaded the victims, and then Security got involved. Guess they were thinking 'medal' or something. Anyway, they grappled the basket and shot at the guy with a taser, but missed, and you can bet they're catching hell for it, too, no matter how the Old Man tried playing it off!"

Hands in the pockets of his tan uniform, the foolish young man blundered on,

"Betcha that little dork is laughing his ass off, somewhere! Too bad they missed, huh?"

Lefkowicz failed to notice how quiet and stone-faced the small family had become, but he soon noticed Victoria Tracy.

"You get paid, boy?" she demanded.

Lefkowicz shrugged.

"Sort of. That's what they tell me, anyway."

"You get to impress your friends an' the ladies, talkin' about all a' them heroic deeds an' rescues you're in on?"

The sailor nodded eagerly, grinning like a happy dog.

"_Oh,_ yeah! You betcha, missus! I start talking out there on shore leave, and it's free drinks and hot-and-cold running girls, all day and all night!"

"Uh-huh. Thought so." Victoria leaned closer, tapping the head of her cane in the center of Lefkowicz's chest. "Bet you _he_ don't! Bet you he's just a kid who don't see a cent o' pay, an' has to shut up about riskin' his life to save all them folks _you_ boys won't bother with!"

Alarmed by her vehemence, Lefkowicz stumbled backward. He nearly collided with poor, confused Bailey, but Grandma Tracy wasn't finished.

"I'm a tired old woman who needs her damn sleep, so get your ignorant ass out of my way, boy, before I smarten it up with a swift kick!"

Lefkowicz gabbled a hasty apology, seized Bailey's arm and ran for cover, routed by a very small, very angry grandmother. As for Victoria, she got the surprise of her life when a passage full of rescued crash victims applauded, and Jeff leaned down to embrace her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, high overhead and busier than ever-_

Sitting in the cockpit with young Alan, Brains had more distress signals and data packets coming in than his computers could fully process. Lightning and dense ash continued to interfere with transmissions, making Hackenbacker's life a stressful, hair-pulling nightmare. Added to all this, the eruption of a brand-new island simply poured its river into an already thundering torrent.

Yet, even in the midst of this flood, though they'd lost the usual secure channels, Brains had to reestablish contact with Jeff, Scott, Virgil, Gordon and John. Their efforts had to be coordinated somehow, _without_ alerting WASP to the fact that the head of International Rescue was operating out of one of their very own ships. Patching, parsing and filtering signals, Hackenbacker considered the problem aloud, worrying like a terrier at one possibility after another. Why had he ever thought that total centralization was a _good_ thing?

"There _has_ to b- be a way to do this without the Island Base servers!" the engineer muttered, reaching across his instrument panel to boost 3's shields. It was getting decidedly ugly, out there; cold and unforgiving, in here.

When Brains was through pressing buttons, Alan hesitantly risked another lecture to cut through his monologue, saying,

"Um… dude? I mean, Mr. Hackenbacker? I've got an idea. For real… no tricks, or anything. Just, okay… hear me out, please?"

For once, the slightly pudgy young man seemed genuinely sincere. There was concern and a little shame in those sky-blue eyes, or so it appeared to Brains. At any rate, the highly over-caffeinated engineer decided to let Alan Tracy have his say.

"G- Go ahead, Alan. Let's, ah… let's h- hear your idea."

The boy took a deep breath, and nodded.

"Okay, so… that RPG? The one Fermat's told you him and me were playing all those times? Well, the thing is… John plays, too, and so does Gordon. Sometimes over the internet even, when we're not, like, physically assembled. Anyways, since Fermat's stuck cooling his heels at a WASP nest with dad, what could be more natural than he'd whip out the ol' PDA and continue his game with _me?_ And that John would log in, too, and Gordon? You could get dad's coded messages all around the family that way super-fast, in, like, total secret. Especially if you guys can set up a link to Scott. I mean, I could roll him up a diseased half-orc mercenary in no time flat. Well…? Huh…? Sound like a plan?"

Hackenbacker's mouth dropped open, but he didn't immediately speak. An online RPG between friends and brothers? Used as a way to pass coded instructions from Jeff to his far-flung sons? Ridiculous. So much so, in fact, that it might just work. Brains laughed, reached over and warmly patted Alan's near shoulder.

"Every s- so often, Alan, you display s- sparkles of real brilliance. _That's_ when I see why my, ah… my s- son has chosen you for his f- friend."

Evidently, they now had the start of a plan, and Alan had a way to make amends.


	20. 20: Blast Radius

Short chapter. Freshly re-edited due to a naming error.

**20: Blast Radius**

_Thunderbird 1-_

He had to beat the leading edge of a fiery shock wave, which meant _climb;_ very high, very fast. No problem at all, ordinarily, but then again the swift rocket plane didn't ordinarily carry this much weight, on so little fuel. His instrument panel looked like a Christmas display, with the fast-moving red arc of that onrushing fire-storm all but covering his radar screen.

John would have come up with something creative to say. All Scott could do was goose the engines and blast off. Straight up; the hell with niceties and navigation. She vaulted off the ground on plumes of flame, while the wind picked horribly up, air temperature spiked and trees began lashing about, blown nearly flat by screaming, super-hot air.

Upward… and this kind of acceleration was usually reserved for reaching low orbit… fierce and fast as her namesake, Thunderbird 1 tore away from the quaking earth. The worst of that fiery axe-blade slashed past beneath her, its upper limits hurling the aircraft violently sideways; and Heaven help anyone who hadn't got out of the way in time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The recently de-bugged prototype-_

John had no one to talk to and nothing to explain. With winds gusting and tree limbs flying, with fire streaking the sky, he raced along the headland and leapt from water-lashed stone to the deck of his rescue boat. Then he faced a rapid scramble across wet metal to plunge through the hatch and inside.

Grapples withdrawn, gangplank retracted, boarding hatch shut and sealed, engines running… All was chaos outside, but that icy, intense clarity you get when life is maybe five minutes away from _game over_ sharpened John's instincts. Curse words there were (and plenty of them) but otherwise, he stuck to the checklist.

Thunderbird 1 needed altitude. Barracuda had to have depth and a big-ass wave shadow. He pulled her away from the exposed headland at top speed, heading around the island and _down,_ deep as she'd go, putting rock and wild water between himself and a shattering end. Not too close to St. Martin, for fear of an undersea landslide. Not too far, lest the shock wave's parted edges clap together on his small craft like two hands smashing a mosquito. 150 feet... 200...

And then it came, with fire above the surface and thunderous pressure below. With turbulence and tumbling rock and the boat's hull ringing like baseball bats on a metal trash can. Overwhelmed, his weak force shield projector failed long before the worst was over.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

Virgil had warning enough to climb into pretty near space. From this vantage, the explosive shock wave looked like a blazing, expanding inner cloud, consuming everything in its path. Immediately, he began attempting to contact his brothers and WASP, sending message after unanswered message.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3-_

Unanswered, because Brains and Alan had been forced to flee, too, and all at once there was no further low-level signal relay. From the still and frigid calm of space, Hackenbacker worked furiously to establish some form of communication, unsecured or no. Using John's security override codes, Brains commandeered a network of WorldGov surveillance satellites and then warped their purpose to relaying comm and warnings. The swiftly-rigged system was leaky and full of glitches, open as a drift net, but…

_"Anyone, from Thunderbird 2! Repeat: Base, Thunderbirds 1, 3 or Scorpion, this is Thunderbird 2 requesting status check!"_

Virgil Tracy's voice was professionally contained, but very tense.

"Thunderbird 2 from Thunderbird 3," Alan cut in, before Hackenbacker could stop him. Wisely, he used no names. "We read you!"

_"Copy that, 3," _his older brother responded. _"What the hell's going on down there? Where's everyone else?"_

Brains shooed Alan away from the mike, leaving the boy nothing to do but listen in hard while staring at another sunrise from space.

"If they're, ah… they're b- below the main ash-cloud, 2, they'll be out of, ah… of c- contact for awhile," Brains clarified. "N- No immediate cause for alarm. I'm p- putting together a work-around, and we'll hear f- from everyone soon, I'm, ah… I'm certain."

Not very reassuring, perhaps, but there wasn't much else he could say on an open and unsecured line. Worse, there were curiosity-seekers, reporters and military stations trying to cut in. Hackenbacker filtered them out as best he could, very much wishing for John's tightly-encrypted dark net.

_"I'm going back in,"_ Virgil announced. _"There's gotta be something I can do to help, down there."_

Brains tensed. He would have liked to tell Virgil _no, _that he was to stand by for further instructions, but truthfully the engineer had little authority over his employer's anxious son. Maybe an appeal to reason would work…?

"Thunderbird 2, if you, ah… you g- go below my comm set-up's reach, I won't be able to, ah… to advise you, wh- when the others call in."

He waited, getting nothing but silence and, through Thunderbird 3's wide view screen, the white-hot gleam of approaching dawn.

"Thunderbird 2, do you read?"

_"Yeah… Copy that, 3. I'll wait for thirty minutes, but if you haven't come up with anything solid by then, I'm going in after them."_

Alan pumped a clenched fist in the air, 100-percent approving his brother's decision. The Tracys were a close-knit family, for all their emotional reserve. Hackenbacker quelled the boy with a single, sharp glance, and then set hurriedly to work. He had a thirty-minute deadline to meet before Virgil's thin patience ran short.

_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

_Elsewhere-_

_Scorpion_ came very near to being caught by the blast. Captain Strangeways had ordered a stop to collect two people and a small dog stranded on a capsized sailboat. They'd been huddled in the lee of their vessel's winged keel, breathing through pulled-up shirts and despairing of rescue, when the WASP cruiser broke water. One swift zodiac launch later, all appeared to be well, other than controversy about the small, yappy animal. Then _Scorpion's_ comm officer received word from International Rescue of a violent eruption, less than ninety miles to the east.

Alarm klaxons sounded, charts were consulted and then, just as John Tracy had, they dove. Hard and fast, straight for the lee-side shelter of a tall seamount.

The honeymoon couple and their bedraggled Pomeranian were conducted to an already packed cabin and told to hang on. An old woman and an oriental girl made room for them, a young boy with glasses abandoning his space on a bunk to allow the new Mrs. Jenkins a seat.

"Thank you!" she whispered hoarsely, biting her lip and clutching tighter at the whimpering dog as _Scorpion_ began to plunge.


	21. 21: Access Connections

Thanks, ED. Freshly edited.

**21: Access Connections**

Shock waves and attendant tsunamis rocketed away from the newly emerged island in expanding, devastating circles, forming nested spheres of chaos. Everything in their path was affected, whether on the water or high in the air above. What ash and earthquake had begun, hammer-like air and rampaging water continued.

Always, though, bright-winged hope; last in the box, but not least. Like a trepanning was done to open the skull and release evil spirits, so the cracked crust and gushing magma calmed… for a time… the area's restless grinding. Little by little, the tremors began to subside, ash to clear and the Pacific Rim to recover. Not quickly, however, and not without cost.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 1-_

_One job at a time, _he thought, after wrestling the silver 'Bird back into level flight. _Get these people to safety, then head out and look for more._

Nowhere in this scenario did Scott dwell on his family and friends. Yes, they mattered, but _civilians_ came first, always. Again, _straight_ _up_ was the answer, combined with a great-circle flight path headed more or less east. He had to be quick and careful, though, because Shadowbot was probably down, along with Island Base.

Climbing, Scott Tracy got his breathing back under control, then tested the instruments and steering mechanisms, one at a heart-soothing time. Green across the board, and the handsome pilot had no idea that he'd been talking to himself until Lady Penelope snapped,

"Scott, dear… _must_ you carry on muttering like a dreary, toothless old uncle?"

"Huh…? Muttering? Um… sorry, Penelope. I'm usually alone in here, and maybe I've gotten sort of quirky. I'll work on it."

In the foxfire glow of lightning, instruments and hot ash, she seemed especially beautiful, and tense enough to crack at a touch. At his apology, however, she did smile a little.

"Quirks can be excused as mere charming eccentricities in the dreadfully wealthy, Scott. However, they are not at all reassuring in one's pilot. _Do_ attempt to radiate greater stability, please."

Such small jokes Penny could manage, though her nerves were stretched to the point of rupture. Her alarmingly crass and faithless partner was elsewhere, possibly dead or injured, and she had not even the right to ask whether he'd survived. Unless… perhaps… if phrased very obliquely…

"My bad," Scott had said, or something equally colloquial. She could hardly be bothered to listen, at a time like this. Nevertheless, Penelope forced a smile as she changed the subject.

"Shall I go back and have a peep in at Parker and our passengers? I could assist somewhat, medically, whilst you contact darling Jeff, Virgil and, er… John, too, I suppose. One mustn't forget the dear boy, though he _is_ so frequently absent."

_Enough,_ the young noblewoman chided herself as she unstrapped to rise. That last bit had tumbled forth as nervously as a kiss-wreathed midnight confession.

"Yeah," Scott nodded at her, wrapping up his systems check. "Good idea, Penny. You check on the folks aft. Patch anyone up who's sprung their bandages, if you don't mind, and keep me apprised of the situation. I'll see what I can find out about dad and the rest from here. Tell 'em… tell the refugees it's about an hour and a half to Chile, okay? We'll be there in no time."

"Of course, dear."

She looked good, he had to admit, the black cat-suit delineating a set of curves (fore and aft) that ought to have been illegal. Maybe Penelope _wasn't_ "Ms. Right", but from dad's perspective, Scott could certainly see why she was "Ms. Right _Now_".

Stuffing that thought rather uncomfortably away (he was engaged, after all), Scott started hitting the comm. It wasn't until he cleared the damn ash layer that anyone responded, though.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Scorpion-_

The WASP cruiser, sheltered by a seamount almost as large as Mt. Rainier, survived her underwater pounding with little more than flickering lights and jounced passengers. Some of them screamed aloud when the double hulls groaned and flexed around them, but Hackenbacker's basic design was sound, and the boat made it through unharmed. About ten minutes after all the shaking subsided, Captain Strangeways' transmitted voice gave the all-clear, and his cruiser's itinerary: WASP Pacific Fleet Command, off Baja, California.

With luck and a hiding place, the boat was fine. Not so, Jeff Tracy's equilibrium. He'd never felt so helpless, so removed from the center of things. Not even when TinTin's soothing touch and voice put that damn little dog to sleep did Jeff's mood lighten. Where were his sons? What was their status? Could a message get through, without revealing his position with International Rescue? (Position, hell! He _was_ International Rescue, and without him, the boys would be leaderless.)

"Fermat," he began carefully, having arrived at a plan. "Is there any way you could, say, patch into _Scorpion's_ comm network and help me make a short call?"

Standing across the cramped cabin from young Mrs. Jenkins and her peacefully snoring bedroom-slipper of a dog, Jeff was acutely aware of the need to be… cautious. Fermat had been clinging to the tiny cabin's bolted-down desk during their shock wave encounter. Now he blinked up at Jeff and nodded thoughtfully.

"I th- think so, sir, if you'd… like to m- make a call to one of… your assoc- associates. B- But it would be best not… to discuss any business s- secrets, because my tap-in c- could be… discovered."

Jeff smiled at him, saying,

"Understood, Fermat, and thanks. See what you can do, please. The matter is urgent."

The still-damp Jenkins pair glanced at each other. Like Jeff, Kyrano and Fermat, blond Albert Murchison Jenkins the Fourth was leaning against a grey bulkhead rather than taking up space on the cabin's lone chair and bunk. _That_ comfort was reserved for the ladies.

"Am I to understand, sir," he began in an anxious tone of voice, "that you have access to a _phone_? A means of calling the outside world?"

(Other than the cabin comm, he meant. The wall unit only called around ship, and had been deactivated, anyway. Whichever staff officer had been ejected from his quarters to make room for them all did not seem to merit an outside line.)

"Possibly," Jeff allowed, wishing for his office and private comm screen. The Jenkinses had introduced themselves earlier, which gave them a few privileges. "If Fermat, here, is as clever with computers as usual."

Fermat turned pink to the tips of his ears, and TinTin smiled at him. It was terribly nice to be noticed, once in awhile. Still better to be able to help, as Fermat was now determined to do.

"Then…" Albert Jenkins looked across the cabin again at Carolyn, whose eyes had grown wide with bitten-lip hope. "Might I request… when you've concluded your business… to be allowed to make contact with my family and that of my wife? They are no doubt beside themselves with worry, and Carolyn's mum… is rather frail. If you please, Mr. Tracy? It would mean so much to my wife."

Put that way (even in such annoyingly formal terms) Jeff would have felt lumpish and grouchy refusing.

"No problem," he told the grateful young couple, who looked as though they belonged in an all-Harvard issue of Fortune 500 magazine. "If _I_ get through, you'll get your shot, as well."

Albert beamed, square-jawed as a Calvin Klein shirt model.

"Thank you, sir, for myself and Carolyn, both."

Fermat, in the meantime, had already whipped out his small, plastic-bagged PDA and begun scanning for mobile area networks. No telling how long it would take them to reach safety and privacy. Until then, Jeff Tracy absolutely had to have contact with the rest of his team. He had to find out what was going on.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3-_

Brains' efforts achieved partial success, at any rate. Once Thunderbird 1 popped over that aggravatingly dense ash layer, the engineer was able to contact Scott.

_"Anyone at all, from Thunderbird 1. I'm broadcasting unsecured at a frequency of 12,000 megahertz. Thunderbirds 2 or 3… you guys out there?"_

He sounded discouraged, as though he'd been trying for awhile with no success. Brains leaned eagerly forward, lank brown hair falling into his narrow face.

"Ah… c- copy that, 1. This is Th- Thunderbird 3. We read you loud and, ah… and clear."

_"FAB,"_ came the quick response. _"Good to hear from you, 3. The situation's stable over here. What about you? Anyone else called in, yet?"_

Brains nodded, darkening Thunderbird 3's view screen to block a little of that broiling white sun. Alan fidgeted madly beside him. Obviously, the boy was desperate to cut in, but not on an unsecured line. No one outside the organization needed to learn that there were teenagers involved, and Brains soon scowled him into stillness.

"Y- Yes, indeed, 1. We're fine. Thunderbird 2 has, ah… has made contact, and we're establishing a link to the, ah… the director."

There was a few moments' crackling emptiness, while Scott digested this. Then,

_"Copy you reaching the Director, 3. What about Rocketman?"_

Rocketman…? As in 'astronaut'? Under the circumstances, he could only be referring to John. Forgetting that Scott couldn't see him (no video on an open line) Hackenbacker shook his head, adding,

"N- Not yet, 1. But, ah… But he's surely certain t- to call in, soon."

Best not to dwell publicly on silence and absences. A more delicate matter intruded, though: How to tell Scott of Alan's idea, without revealing the contact plan to all those illicit listeners.

"In th- the, ah… the meantime, Thunderbird 1, you m- may get a call to participate in, er… some g- group activities. D- Director's request, of course."

_"Oh…"_ Scott sounded puzzled, as well as distracted. Apparently, he'd gotten through to Virgil. _"Hang on, 2… Copy that, 3: the Director wants to run a group activity. Anything further?"_

As in… what in God's name was he trying to say? Again, Brains shook his head. Not yet. Not until Jeff, the Director himself, called in.

"Stand by for further details, 1, and use algorithm 4k-3 for the next broadcast frequency."

_"FAB. Thunderbird 1 delivering cargo, and standing by."_

Brains signed off with a tired sigh. He'd gotten through to Virgil and Scott, if nothing else, and that was half the battle. Question was, how (if at all) was the other half living?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The much-battered and debugged prototype-_

For all of its shortcomings, the Barracuda was a seaworthy little craft. Had she been out in the open, Brains' convertible sub might not have survived. Hidden behind the submerged bulk of St. Martin, though, she squeaked through, and so did John Tracy, whose ID chip was burning like white phosphorous. Evidently, Five wanted an audience.

_No._ In fact, not just no, but _hell_ no. She'd done something last time, he suddenly remembered. Something to make him cooperate. Well, screw that. He wasn't a puppet, and he damn well refused to heel when called like an effing dog.

The interior of the little rescue sub smelled and felt of stress and fried wiring. The metal-alloy view screen shields had clamped tight, and most of her instruments were blinking like the caution light at a lonely intersection… But he was alive. He'd made it. Now, John supposed, he ought to find out if the prototype was still maneuverable.

"Shut up," he muttered at his wrist (and Five). "Nobody's home."

John reached for the sub's steering yoke, thinking: damn her, anyway. What had she done? What would she _continue_ to do, if he kept letting her deeper into his head? Effing run the place?

With the yoke as a brace, he straightened himself in the pilot's seat and then unstrapped, moving as slowly and rustily as a very old man. He'd taken quite a pounding, evidently; him and Barracuda, both.

"I mean it, back off!"

Messages had appeared in 1337 on all of the prototype's instrument readouts and view screens, but John refused to look at them. Those stupid ribs… the ones he'd injured that time in Antarctica… were giving him trouble, again. Hurting a little, anyhow, but far from his most serious problem. _That_ would be Five, the lovely and powerful thing he'd created, who wanted to put him in a goddam padded cage. And for that problem, John wasn't certain he had an answer.


	22. 22: Accommodation

Thanks Ed, Tikatu and Magrat. Just a mini, but edited for clarity.

**22: Accommodation**

_Thunderbird 1, the cargo hold-_

International Rescue boasted some major technology, which Bambi Laughlin had more than the usual reasons to be grateful for. The cramped cargo hold must've had its own force field, or something, because even with all the shaking and pounding she'd sensed, very little force was transferred to the injured people within. Especially Brick, who mattered more than everyone else combined. (To Bambi Laughlin, anyway.)

The smudged contestant (one-time winner of the "Little Miss Duluth" pageant) leaned over Brick's docked and med-linked grav cart.

"Paul," she whispered, pulling free of her safety straps, "can you hear me?"

Around her, the others were stirring a little. Much as they could when packed in like Vienna Sausages, that is. Brick's eyes opened to look at the girl. He had hazel eyes. She hadn't noticed that, before, being busy and all.

"You're still here?" he asked hoarsely, sounding surprised.

Bambi smiled, happy to draw one of those private magic circles around the two of them that people do when they belong together.

"'Fraid so," she joked softly. "Faking hurt won't throw me off track if earthquakes and water didn't."

Brick must've got her meaning, because his hand inched over to touch hers on the edge of the grav cart.

"What if I don't get better?" he asked, though it felt like small, angry bugs were biting his feet and legs.

Bambi shook the possibility aside with a vigorous toss of her ashen and gritty hair. Someone entered the cargo hold from up front, joining their quiet (and bustling) male rescuer. Bambi ignored both of them, saying,

"You're going to be fine, Paul. I'll be there every step of the way to make sure of it."

After all, as her mother had always told her, a girl's gotta know what she wants.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The stalled prototype, in the midst of a furious stand off-_

Tall and blond, angry as hell, John stood up at mid-cockpit, trying to think his way through some powerfully heavy emotions. Ordinarily, he didn't feel things this strongly…but ordinarily, his brain hadn't been tampered with and then violently battered by eruption and shock wave.

Five was very near to him. Not just in his ID chip, or the rescue boat's circuitry, either. In that parallel cyberverse he'd once been able to access. So close, he could feel her shifting spin states and frantic calculations, which meant that she could probably sense what was eating him, too.

He was wearing a dark-blue protective uniform, with an equipment belt that included a holstered pistol. Drawing the weapon, he flipped it off safety and then pointed its long muzzle at the steering control panel.

"I want a promise," he said to the air and the entity that surrounded him, "that you're not going to do that again. No more tampering, ever."

Like a drug, he recalled. She'd drugged him or something…

"…Otherwise, I shoot and keep on shooting, beyond the point of repair, and that'll be the end of it. Poor John; lost at sea. Ashes to ashes, etc."

Strange… but the longer he spent enmeshed in her agitated consciousness, the more his environment changed. At first it was just a set of glowing field lines he saw, radiating through all points in space; out of the sub and into the suddenly visible water. There were numbers at every intersection, representing force, density, charge and pressure, or maybe just Five's anxious mood.

The lines accessed him; most of them bringing strength and repair, though some… like the red field lines touching his ribs and right knee… caused pain, instead. Weird, but then, he'd always been an experimental guy. With one hand, John slashed through the glowing rib-line. It disappeared immediately, leaving behind an odd feeling that major damage would now result someplace else. To his friends and family, maybe. Better leave the knee line alone, then, because that one felt very much worse than the other had. What-the-hell-ever. Get to the point.

He still wouldn't look directly at her screen messages, deliberately de-focusing his vision to avoid seeing whatever she'd posted there.

"You can accept my conditions by cutting off the instrument lights, twice. Otherwise, we move to the next level."

More weirdness. Every time his gaze lingered on something, a window popped up bearing its description and work specs, like he was examining Ike's computerized wire-frame blueprint, rather than the actual boat.

It was…okay… it was _damn_ hard not to just drop his weapon and forgive her. Forget the whole thing. Except that he couldn't. Not and remain a free man. Yet… he'd never done anything so important, created anything half so beautiful, as the quantum entity he was battling now. He loved her, but he couldn't allow her to win. Not this time.

In his hands, the pistol was heavy, its metal and plastic hand-grip warm to the touch, its muzzle unwavering. His finger stayed firm on the trigger. Tense and ready. Then the sub's instrument panel went dark once… twice… and cut on, again.

John nodded.

"Thank you," he said, putting away the gun, along with most of his charged and unwanted emotions. More field lines had attached themselves to him, and he was soon at one-hundred-percent. Clean, even, and no longer hungry. Yeah… just maybe, she loved him, too.


	23. 23: Set Up and Follow Through

Thanks for your patience with all my delays and long-winded explanations. I like to put things in flowchart format. Thanks for reviewing, ED, Magrat, Tikatu and Manga Girl-ES.

**23: Set Up and Follow Through**

_Thunderbird 1, on the tarmac in Santiago, Chile-_

The airport was deliberately quite a small one, though fairly accessible and currently packed with emergency vehicles. On those occasions when Scott Tracy found himself headed for the bleak and arid Pacific coast of South America, this little strip and its outbuildings offered Thunderbird 1 a safe haven. He'd handled a terrible fuel tank fire here, once, and Chilean memories were long.

A quick glance through the cockpit view screen showed it to be around noon, local time, with the sun scorching-high and brick kiln-hot. Even the shadows had sense enough to hide, poised directly beneath whatever object or person was foolish enough to face the Atacama Desert at midday. With the purple-grey Andes jaggedly tall on one side, and the ocean a rampaging nightmare on the other, the little airport seemed caught in a natural vise.

Scott had too much on his mind to dwell on the scenery, though; low fuel, no hangar, and refugees to off-load, for starters. Also… all this non-stop activity was beginning to catch up to him. _How_ long had it been since those roast-beef-and-dinner-roll sandwiches? Twelve hours? Fourteen?

The fighter pilot finished shutting down his Bird's engines, typed in a hasty post-flight, then unstrapped and went aft. A few strides brought him to the cargo hold, where his Mobile Control equipment was all but crowded out by noisy, anxiously-milling passengers. Looked like Lady Penelope and Parker had their hands full keeping order in there, so Scott donned a helmet and face shield by way of partial concealment, and then waded on in.

Matters weren't as chaotic as they'd appeared through the hatch port, though. Penny already had the group organized to deplane, giving him one less thing to worry about. Scott stepped up to hurry the business along, and found himself talking to a young woman named Peyton Spence (cute, natural blonde, ash-reddened but probably blue or green eyes) who surprised him with an apology.

"Listen," she said, placing a light hand on his arm, "I wanted to say I'm sorry for being so pushy on the comm, earlier, while we were waiting for rescue."

She smiled at him, lifting and dropping her slim shoulders in a quick, embarrassed shrug.

"Usually, I'm not vicious like that, but…"

"…But it's easy to turn into a screaming hard-ass, when people are depending on you and nothing seems to be working?" Scott finished for her, smiling back.

"Something like that, I guess," she agreed, helping him to open the outer boarding hatch. Nice girl; better yet, potentially useful.

"I wouldn't let it worry you too much," Scott told her, as a lance of blistering daylight shot through the opened hatch. Must've been 130 degrees out there, chaotic with people and noise. "The effect fades with time and experience, trust me."

A quick, coded press to the hatch-side control panel extended Thunderbird 1's boarding ramp, which slid outward like a fast-growing limb until it ground to a halt against rasping, pebbled earth. She'd have stepped through, then, this possible future operative, but Scott delayed her.

"Hang on," he said, locating a certain card in the equipment belt of his uniform. It was white, made of heavy stock, with _**International Rescue**_ printed on the front and a certain number on the back. Scott gave her the card, saying,

"Give us a call, once the, uh, current situation settles down. And remind the local emergency crews that transportation and triage costs are to be billed to account 137. Wait… I'll write it down…"

Devil of a time finding a pen, of all things, but Peyton came up with one from the pockets of somebody named Shane. All this and resourceful, too. Definitely, operative material.

Peyton took the card from him with unfeigned wonder, as though she'd just earned something far more important than an Omni Entertainment movie contract. Glancing up at the tall, partly masked rescue pilot, she said,

"There are some others here you might be interested in, too. Especially Brick, once he's healed up enough to work."

The young mechanic's grav stretcher had been first out the hatch, carefully eased down by Parker and Penny. The unconscious cook and ship's captain were next.

"I trust your judgment," Scott said to Peyton, as those who could still walk began trickling from Thunderbird 1. "Call the number on that card, and we'll talk with you, and whoever else you care to suggest."

A warm handshake followed, its promise only a little dimmed by the seething look Jason Vann shot them on his way out. There was a man, Scott reflected, as he sent Peyton down the ramp to Chile, who lived for no other reason than to make trouble for everyone else. Better put John on the case, he decided, raising the ramp and closing the hatch on another hard rescue.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, descending once more to take up a relay position.-_

The crimson spaceship wobbled and bucked, lancing downward through clouds of glowing ash. It was a mess here, still dangerous despite the shock wave's departure. Somewhere nearby, a new island was hauling itself into existence from the very blood and bones of the Earth, and this tended to be a messy and violent process. Noisy and smelly, too. According to the ship's atmospheric sensors, there was enough hydrogen sulfide gas floating around out there to dissolve human lung tissue in seconds. Paint, too, probably. Good thing Thunderbird 3 had a force shield, huh? Not that Alan had much to do with all that; Brains was the one flying the plane. All the boy had to do was plan a dang coded RPG. And him without dice. Or rule books. Or a map.

Well… these are the times that pry men's souls, right? And Alan, being one of the tough, was about to get going. Seriously.

"Okay, so…" PS Nano in hand, he turned a little away from the button-fiddling and muttering Hackenbacker, "…here's the new plan: just before Sir Gawain shows up to complete our happy play-group, Male Elf hears the old call of the wild, again, and decides to go carousing."

His PS Nano had a really neat random number generator, which you could set for anything from coin toss (50/50) to d1000 (if only such magical dice existed out here in the _real_ world!). Alan triggered it now, somehow keeping his no lunch and less breakfast down, despite all the wild turbulence. Dang! Brains needed to, like, go to pilot school, and John even had _fake_ dice seduced, so lucky were his absentee rolls! Backed by favorable numbers, his character was about to have a stupid good time, where anyone else would have gotten themselves killed.

Anyways, Alan could totally visualize the scenario. Male Elf simply bummed a few coins and a quick feel off some giggling tavern wench, then took his dark-elf butt out the door one night in search of… whatever it is restless people keep looking for. In ME's case, corrosive drink and alarming companionship.

So, this feral-cat shadow slipped from alley to corner to rooftop, causing almost as much mischief as he broke up. (Depended on his mood and the situation. Male Elf was only marginally a nice guy, and that much mostly by proxy. But Gawain and Frodle were starting to rub off on him, a little.)

So, yeah… here and there until he came to the lakeshore docks, and then to the seated figure of Glud, a half-orc with major cash-flow problems. As in, no cash _to_ flow, or even to dribble. The bristly, hulking creature didn't see him at first, as Male Elf was perched on a warehouse roof above him, sheathed in spells and racial abilities.

Being the naturally curious sort (and having suffered greatly for same) the dark-elf paused awhile on that windy rooftop to watch and consider. The fellow below was big, and alone. His breathing rasped above the creak of docked boats and slapping water. He smelled sober, underfed and… stressed. Partly-healed wounds had their own scent, as well, which mingled with a general sort of nose-wrinkling orcishness, partly softened by man-blood. Blank shield, the elf noticed, mended clothing and flat purse. A mercenary, then; masterless and broke, looking for work on the outskirts of Meretown. Well, hadn't Gawain always said they could use more muscle? Orcs were muscle.

Fluid as a cat, he dropped from the roof to land in a silent crouch before the startled creature. The man-thing rose with a grunt, reaching one gristly hand over its shoulder to grasp a sweat-stained and leather-wrapped sword hilt.

"Don't bother," Male Elf told him, using the common language. "You won't hit me, and I'm not looking for a fight." This time.

The half-orc scowled, heavy brows lowering over surprisingly blue eyes. Human mother, Male Elf decided. For some reason, orc mothers tended to more strongly mark their offspring (their unfortunate mates, too, for that matter). But this fellow was just oddly mixed enough to be hated by both tribes.

"What you _are _looking for, then?" the mercenary demanded, stepping forward aggressively. "Elves are nothing but trouble."

He spat at the graceful other's booted feet, but missed.

"…dark elves worse than that."

Quixotically, Male Elf decided to like the guy, who seemed to have a pretty good head on his table-wide shoulders, for an orc.

"Actually, I'd like to hire you," he said, moving into the pale light of a barred window, the wench's few coins in hand.

Well, now… that changed _everything_. With employment a possibility, Glud relaxed a bit. Reaching for his ale flask, Glud pulled it from a sagging equipment belt and ripped the cork loose with strong, yellow teeth. A good smell bubbled forth, yeasty and sharp. Because he had company, and ought to be formal, Glud wiped the flask's mouth against his rumpled tunic before offering it to the moonlight-and-shadow elf.

"Drink first," he announced. "Bargain, later."

Took about an hour by the night watch's cries, but before too long, Glud had a job.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Scorpion-_

A uniformed crewman came to their cabin, laden with packaged and stabilized meals. Evidently, the spotty young fellow had been warned about its inmates, because in response to Jeff's hearty…

"Jeff Tracy, Tracy Aerospace. How do you do?"

…and outstretched hand, he only stuttered. Poor Seaman Burke needn't have worried, though. Most everyone else was napping, and Jeff so desperate to network that he'd have set up a conference with deck and bulkheads. Not realizing this, Burke shoved a stack of plastic-bagged meals at him and then just about dove through the hatch to safety.

Jeff sighed, glanced over at Fermat, and then down at his armload of military rations.

"Wonder if these have gotten any better, since I was in?" he murmured, squinting at a handy ingredient label. Whipped egg product in spicy sauce…?

"Doesn't look like it. Well," Turning to face young Fermat and the slack and slumbering others, Jeff raised his voice. "Rise and shine, people. Last one up gets the tuna-protein surprise!"

Not far away, Fermat winced but kept working, which was why he ended up stuck with the seasoned okra-tofu loaf, and an upset stomach. Kyrano did his best to improve their loathsome breakfast, blending entrees, sauces and sprinkle packs, but not even _he_ could spin gold out of stable-leavings.

Anyhow, with breakfast not really an option, Fermat kept scanning, punching in broad ranges of possible IP addresses, until he scored. _Bingo!_

The ship's XO had his own private VOIP line, secured with what amounted to a bread loaf twisty-tie. Better yet, his password was still at its default setting: passwd. Fermat would have been downright aghast, if he hadn't wanted so badly to hug the guy… or girl… whose screen name appeared to be 'WaspQueen310'.

Hoping that they were shallow enough to broadcast, and that Alan's phone was in position to receive, Fermat sent a brief, cleverly-coded text message.

'_Greetings, Allat. How goes life in the fair beyond? Pls w/b, Frodle'_

Came the reply, not two minutes later,

'_funny U shld ask d00d!! LOL!! game on!! Allat the Shade'_


	24. 24: Time Flies

First draft, will edit. Thanks for the reviews, ED and Tikatu. I appreciate your comments and insight.

**24: Time Flies**

_Thunderbird 1, lifting off from Santiago, Chile-_

Scott flew with part of his mind, thanking the Chilean officials for the use of their airstrip, minding comm chatter and radar; the usual stuff. But with the other half of his brain (the confused half) he struggled to follow Penny's singular reasoning. Females generally had a rationale for their actions. It was _deciphering_ this rationale that gave men fits.

"You want me to drop you off _where?"_ The dark-haired pilot asked her, as Thunderbird 1 lifted past the Andes and into a ripping crosswind.

"On the Trans-American Highway, ten miles north of El Viejo, if you please, Scott."

Nope. She still wasn't making any sense. Why the hell would Penelope want him to abandon her in the middle of the Atacama, ten miles past a one-coke-machine, broken-gas-pump flyspeck of a town? Even the South Pole station would be more hospitable than that. El Viejo was the sort of place where foolish teens ran out of fuel at the start of a zombie flick. And even if the dead ignored the script and chose to mind their own business, there were all of those sun-addled and deeply-bored locals to worry about.

Scott took his eyes from the view screen and instrument panel long enough to look at Penelope, who was looking at herself, applying red lipstick with the aid of a small mirror.

"Um… Penny… with all due respect, I can't really just drop you off in the middle of nowhere. Dad would kill me."

Penelope paused in mid-lipstick pout to glance at him, her blue eyes large in that perfect pale oval of a face.

"You needn't concern yourself for my welfare, Scott darling, as I shan't be alone for long. Of course, Parker will attend me, but I have also contacted a good friend in Brazil, Eduardo Dos Santos, and he has already dispatched a helijet from his estate. I have a photo shoot scheduled in Rio, don't you see, and _Vogue_ magazine does not like to be kept waiting."

There wasn't much to say to this except,

"Oh."

Penny was a successful model as well as an operative, much in demand for her misty-isles delicacy.

"Do tell your dear father…and, er, your brothers whenever you've heard from them all… that I anticipate being done with the shoot by tomorrow evening, and that I shall contact them straightaway."

She'd started on her mascara, by now, gently brushing dark paste on her long, curving lashes; mouth slightly open and eyes intent.

"Sure," Scott replied, and then went back to flying his Bird. Lady Penelope wasn't his sort and never would be, no matter how good she looked, because he required more substance from a woman. But hey… to each his own, right? Dad could do whatever he pleased… except find a real way to replace mom.

A bit of time passed. Penny had just gone aft to switch outfits, and Scott was making a few mid-flight course adjustments, when a phone call got through, from Alan. The connection wasn't great, but it was the content that really floored Scott.

_"Hey, man,"_ his youngest brother chirped. _"I got an invitation for you! We're having this neat RPG, see? Fermat, me, Gordon and John; and since there's nothing else to do while everyone's scattered around waiting, we thought you'd like to join in. I got a character rolled up for you, and everything! Dad even thinks that it sounds like fun."_

"RPG…?" Scott repeated, perplexed. Was this the 'group activity' Brains had warned him about?

_"Yeah, y'know… a role-playing game. Like Dungeons and Dragons, sort of, only __way__ cooler, because __I'm__ in charge of everything. So, how 'bout it, Scott? Huh? You in?"_

Oooh, boy. Tough one. Yes, he knew what 'Dungeons and Dragons' was all about, but had thought that such things as dice and painted figurines and dusty rule books belonged in a duct-taped shoebox under the bed. _Way_ under the bed. Still, if dad and John were involved, it had to be serious, right? Especially since right now, there was far from 'nothing else to do'.

"Um, yeah… okay, Al. Count me in, I guess."

Words he would live to regret.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, briefly on autopilot-_

Virgil Tracy hated to do it, but he had to wake Gordon. The kid lay on his bunk in the rear crew cabin, densely asleep. He was almost too tired to breathe, much less toss and mumble. One arm was flung across his face, the other trailing off the edge of his berth, with green blanket slightly askew.

Putting forth a hand, Virgil grasped Gordon's near shoulder and gave it a gentle shake, saying,

"Up and at 'em, Kiddo. Time to rise and face the new day. Life awaits, etc."

It took five minutes and several further wake-up aphorisms, but Gordon finally came to some kind of rubbery consciousness, safe in the rumbling confines of Thunderbird 2.

"Mornin', is it?" he asked, sitting up and accepting a very large cup of coffee. Chemical clarity to the rescue; dark, rich and welcome.

"12:47 PM, actually, and the fun's just beginning. We've got to… Gordon, what are you _wearing?"_

This last with an incredulous smile, for the tee-shirt that Gordon had somehow struggled into the night before was nearly tight enough to block circulation.

"Erm… Sorry. Wrong clothes locker," the swimmer excused himself, feeling a bit foolish. Virgil simply laughed the matter off, though. As brothers went, he was unfailingly calm, supportive and friendly. Best mate material, even if he'd not been a relative.

Urging more coffee on Gordon, the big pilot changed the subject.

"Get this," he said. "Alan called me up on my cell, with an invitation for you to pick up some kind of game, something he says you were already playing…?"

Gordon blinked at him. Thanks to all that ash and vile seawater, his vision remained blurry yet, but Virgil appeared quite serious, even so.

"Th' role playin' game? At a time like this?"

"Yup. And he says Scott and dad are involved, too, believe it or not."

This, Gordon had difficulty grasping, so instead he took the peanut-and-raisin power bar Virgil handed him, washing each bite down with another swallow of sweetened coffee. While he was finishing brunch, Virgil stretched, yawned enormously and said,

"Don't guess he'd be joking around… not with Brains right there, anyway. Plus, Scott said something about dad calling for a group activity, so maybe he _is_ serious."

The one-time football player ran a big hand through his wavy brown hair, honestly confused by the situation. He hadn't the most trusting relationship with Alan, mostly because it was hard to feel close to someone whose pranks and stupid insults he was forever having to dodge.

"You know him better than I do, champ. It's your call."

Gordon nodded. He was a bit woozy, yet, but more than willing to finish brunch, work the stiffness from his cramped muscles and re-don the armour of an errant Cross-Knight.

"Right, then. Best be up and movin'."

Somewhat creakily, Gordon Tracy rose from his bunk, adding,

"No worries, Virgil. I'll explain it all as we go along."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The rapidly healing prototype-_

John was in deep immersion, literally enmeshed in barracuda's computers and Five's extended sensory field. This way, reality warped itself to meet _him,_ not the other way around, and tasks that should have been hard were made simple as thought; clean as a line of taut code.

When his phone rang, John perceived not a sound but a mental alert, and he 'answered' by focusing a bit of his attention on the linked device, causing its icon to expand and brighten. Mentally clicking on the phone brought an image of Saul Guthrie, NASA's chief astronaut liaison.

At once, John coded in a convincing backdrop for himself, mostly cribbed from random disaster movies: a nameless airstrip with hurtling emergency vehicles and busy relief agencies. Then (adding a nice, realistic touch) he imaged himself as a blanket-wrapped refugee, seated by a first-aid tent and clutching a cup of hot coffee.

_"John!"_ Saul greeted him, his narrow, hawk-nosed face breaking into an instant, relieved smile. _"Everything okay, out there?"_

John's artfully scuffed image nodded, even smiling back, a little.

"Yeah, Saul. It was touch-and-go for awhile, but I'm good now."

Guthrie relaxed visibly. Maybe he knew of John's IR connections, and maybe he didn't, but that was beside the point. Tracy was one of his astronauts, and therefore, family.

_"Good to hear. Take care of yourself, John, and don't try any unauthorized big-wave surfing, understood?"_

"Understand I'm to stay off the water," the younger man replied innocently (he could still be _under_ it, though). "Anything else?"

The lanky Iowan gave him another quick smile. In a lot of ways, Saul reminded him of the ranch folk back in Wyoming; quiet, deliberate in speech and movement, and very much loyal. Not unlike Ken Flowers, really. But Saul was talking, again, saying,

_"Just a wee bug in your ear before I let you go, John. I hear McCord's putting together a crew for a little project he has coming up, in case you're interested."_

Interested? _Nobody_ turned down a mission. Not _ever._ Not even if they had to haul themselves out of the damn grave to show up.

"Yeah. You can tell the bug I'd like to be considered, Saul."

Whatever the mission was, and wherever to, he'd be more than happy to clear his schedule. Simply put, NASA mattered.

_"Okay,"_ Guthrie replied, grey eyes crinkling slightly. _"I'll pass that along. See you soon, John."_

"Thanks, Saul."

Then, of course, Alan called, once more making the cell phone's icon twitch.

_"Hey, bro! What's up?"_ his younger brother asked, when John had diverted enough attention to answer the call. Once again, he made up a background and situation, not too different from the last one, in case anyone was monitoring his calls. You never knew.

"Kind of busy, actually. What seems to be the major malfunction?"

Alan grinned at him, showing all the perfect white teeth that money could buy.

_"Dum-ta-da-dummm! It's your lucky day, Astro-boy! I'm starting the game up, again, and… guess what? Dad's even planning to offer some tips. Scott says he'll play, too. Isn't that awesome?"_

Awesome? John's immediate impulse was to reach through the phone and strangle his brother, who richly deserved to die. Not just for somehow planting _his_ picture on the survival cast (though, yeah… he'd gotten a kiss out of the deal) but _now_ for revealing to Scott and dad both that he took any part at all in a dumb RPG. Damn it!

He could honestly visualize killing his brother, one popping cell at a time. Maybe, if he willed the tiny explosions to happen, starting with Alan's big, flapping mouth?

_"John…? Did you hear me?"_

Something like,

"Yeah. I heard," got grated out, in somebody else's tense, growling voice.

_"Uh… okay, then! Cool beans. I'll call back in a little bit for our next session. TTYL, dude!"_

Sure. Why not? Was it possible to be so angry, twice in a row, that you could burn a hole clear through to the metal seat frame? Because if so, that explained the sudden temperature spike.

Sensing his mood, Five threw caution and probability to the winds, warping space and field lines to obtain a nearby universe's answer to cold beer and cheese pizza. All at once, the prototype's cockpit filled with the welcome, steamy scent of tomato sauce and warm mozzarella. Food of the gods… or, at least, of a seriously pissed-off astronaut.

Somebody, somewhere, had just been robbed of their home delivery. Turned around to fetch the tip money, maybe, and then… _poof._ All gone. Here and now, the cardboard box on John's lap was printed with a jaunty, smiling pizza slice, but the words were all backward. Same for the beer label.

"Send them some money, and don't do that again, Five," he told his computer, but not very severely. Damn, what a day…


	25. 25: A Gathering

Edits are coming.

**25: A Gathering**

_The prototype rescue boat, just off L' Ile St. Martin-_

Somewhat later, topped up with pizza and trouble, John spotted a blinking, open application in his internalized think-space. Not the first time that had happened, and not surprising, given all the interruptions he'd been dealing with. He was just about to hit 'run' and return to work, when basic caution prompted the astronaut to click on the glittering app and take a closer look. A long line of complex code spooled forth, its import and meaning causing him suddenly, completely, to focus. For there, in Steel-basic, was his Alan-termination command, big mouth and all.

Startled, John dropped everything else to cancel the application, which vanished at once with a sharp, internal 'pop'. Literally, he felt sick. How often, during such work-immersions, had his half-expressed wishes been carelessly programmed and run? Who _else_ might have suffered, because he'd lost his damn temper?

This, in turn, sparked another crazy notion. Thinking about the RPG, with its violent and demon-haunted underworld, might he somehow have triggered a spate of real world seismic activity? Perhaps even raising an island?

Far-fetched, on the face of it… but there was a _reason_ he'd promised to stay clear of the cyberverse, one that had nothing to do with Five or role-playing games, either. Feeling suddenly cold, John Tracy readied himself to return to work, this time vowing to keep a better check on his feelings.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere, scattered, but present-_

At the appointed time, via cell phone and PDA, everyone gathered for the first new session of Alan's big game. He was a little nervous, okay, because Scott, Dad and Virgil would be listening in, not to mention TinTin and Grandma. Tough crowd, y'know? Still, Alan went ahead with the game because…

A) He was saving the world, here, and…

2) A guy's gotta have a little fun, right?

On with the show. In his game scenario (rolled up with the PDA's dice app and scribbled on the back of an old maintenance log), a travel-stained Gawain finally entered the Crossroads Tavern after spending huge amounts of time seeing to St. George, his horse.

Coming into the low-beamed and rush-floored common room, Gawain checked with the innkeeper, Toomey. Comfortable looking sort, solid and squat, with a big pot belly and a stained apron. Didn't look like much, till you learned that his tongue was cut, and that he'd once been a general, efficiently 'retired' here by the new queen. At any rate, Gawain always treated the man with a great deal of respect, listening hard to interpret his garbled words and providing (when possible) a small finder's fee. In return, he received quite a few timely hints and a generous drink tab.

This time, the man jerked his stubbly chin toward a booth in the back, but kept on wiping out mugs. All clear, evidently.

"Many thanks, Master Toomey," said Gawain, flipping a handful of coppers onto the nearest unoccupied table. One of the innkeeper's daughters would pick them up, later, or the formidable missus, herself. But no matter how long the coins sat, absolutely no-one would be tempted to steal them. Not here.

Toomey's reply was a smile and brisk salute, given with one hairy, rag-wielding hand. Gawain acknowledged the gesture and then moved on, heading to the rear booth where his party awaited their leader. Small, chunky Frodle was there, busily leafing through his tome as he recorded everyone's presence and tried proving something to Allat, who couldn't have been less interested. The only aspects of magic that mattered to their quick, dark thief were those that stood to make him money. Whys and wherefores didn't fill the purse, after all. And neither did "Knowledge".

Male Elf was there, too, sitting with his back to the white-washed wall. At this point, Gawain halted, for seated beside the dark-elf was what appeared to be a good-sized mountain of weapons and scabrous flesh. Parts of it turned at a nudge from Male Elf, and then the thing made eye contact with Sir Gawain. What happened next was unavoidable, considering his status as a Knight of the Cross. Unable to help himself, Gawain rendered Judgment.

All sound seemed to fade from the busy common room as a genuine, visible air-pulse passed between them, shaking the rushes and dousing a few tallow candles. A silvery glow next surrounded Gawain, as the Powers he served decided whether they'd tolerate one tired and humble half-orc.

Held fast in the will of his deity, Gawain's hand shot to the hilt of his sword. Beneath the scarred table, Male Elf's did the same. The moment passed, though, allowing sound to return and Gawain to breathe, again. He ceased to glow, and became once more himself, rather than instrument and vessel.

"That was ruddy stupid!" he growled at Male Elf, dropping onto the bench beside Frodle. "He might have got killed, and you along with him!"

The pale-haired elf shrugged negligently.

"'Might have been' is for Faerie tales," he replied, pouring Gawain a stiff drink. "You summoned us, we're here. I brought a friend. End of explanation."

In the banked gleam of the fireplace, Male Elf's face was as closed and calm as that of a marble grave-effigy, his only movement an occasional, absent rub at his left wrist. It was the inner light that drew Gawain, however; that within the odd creature that desperately wanted _not_ to fall. There was some of the same in the half-orc, as well.

So the knight looked their newcomer over, noting a hulking expanse of blotchy skin, bulging muscles and yellow teeth. The scarred and warty forehead jutted above heavy brows and surprisingly innocent blue eyes. It was the eyes that did it.

Reaching across partly-filled mugs and torn loaves, the knight offered his hand.

"Gawain of Espan," he said. "How d'you do?"

"I am Glud," the half-orc announced, enveloping Gawain's hand in a huge, knotted paw. Kept his nails trimmed, at least. "I am liege-man now to an elf, who says you make the rules. I will listen and work well. Tell me to fight, I will fight. Tell me to stop, I will stop."

Obviously, the orc had his pitch well memorized. Gawain reclaimed a somewhat compressed right hand, saying,

"Very well, Glud, Through Male Elf, I accept your service, though the quest be a long one, with uncertain rewards…"

"You have food?" Glud inquired seriously.

"Aye, for now."

"Drink? You have ale, as well?"

Another important point, apparently up there with "fights-on-command". Fortunately, the dark elf's bottomless flask might be upended to drain the potion it now contained, and then refilled with ale enough to sate even Glud.

"Aye. We've drink, also."

"Then Glud is rewarded. The elf has paid up front, will pay again when the job ends."

"Which reminds me," Allat cut in, shifting his appearance again with a quick, mumbled word. "What, exactly, _is_ the job?"

Gawain hesitated, feeling the weight of four direct stares and expectations. Setting a strong privacy ward, he squared his broad shoulders and said,

"We're off t' re-forge a crown."


	26. 26: Hidden Agenda

First draft. sorry so sloppy, will edit tomorrow.

**26: Hidden Agenda**

_Within the RPG, at the rear table of a smoky and low-beamed tavern-_

Coming from anyone else, the proposal would have been rejected outright. A trip north, beyond the deadly Ice Wall, to locate bits of long-buried sky metal? The notion would have seemed like frothing madness from anyone but Sir Gawain, who possessed a certain reputation. Unlike most of his kind, the knight had one booted foot firmly planted in the other world. Not just his deity, but spirits of Earth and Faerie influenced Gawain's actions, making for odd quests and strange companions. Generally, though, the Cross-Knight could be trusted to keep his head and lead them in the proper direction (if not always to major profit).

A few objections were raised by Male Elf, who was no more eager than usual to leave the comforts of civilization, but in the end, all were agreed. They would follow the red-haired and left-handed knight north, simply because the job sounded interesting, and no one had much money left.

When the deal was struck, they drank on it, passing a filled tankard around from Gawain to Frodle to Allat, then back across the table to Male Elf and Glud. Frodle could scarcely lift the heavy vessel, while Glud wrapped both scarred and sinewy paws around it with care, lest his full strength shatter carved wood and dense ceramic. Then it was time to clear the table and consult Frodle's tome.

Bread crusts and cheese rinds were swept from the board and onto the floor, where half-grown puppies and flickering imps snatched them away. Gawain hadn't eaten. It was his custom to fast for three days at the start of an errand, in this way gaining deeper sight and greater strength. (Anyhow, he'd breakfasted well on waybread and dried meat, and hardly felt the lack.)

With space made, Frodle brought forth one of his prized possessions, a simple, leather-bound book. It wasn't very thick yet, as he was young for a seer, but each day's experience added lines to the ever-growing knowledge within. Now the robed halfling glanced 'round at his audience of human, dark elf, half-orc and shape shifter, and gave the assemblage a quick smile.

"My friends, if we're all of one mind, I'll consult the omens, but remember that the future's curtain parts unwillingly, and matters can turn on a moment's whim. Listen well… but don't judge too quickly."

Folk shifted, quaffed and conversed in the rest of the common room, their words and outlines blurred by Gawain's privacy spell. Out there, someone built up the fire, and someone else started a loud, rowdy song. At one particular table, though, a halfling scholar spoke words of power and opened his modest tome.

"Our way," he began, squinting at newly-writ lines, "is opposed from below, but encouraged above. There is… I can see help, from time to time… but the two powers nearly balance, with in between them Faerie unable to act, and Earth undecided."

"In other words," Male Elf interrupted sourly, taking a break from carving sigils into the table, "we're on our own, unless the local sprites and godlings get a wild hair to jump in."

Frodle regarded the elf very seriously, a whitish future-mist still clouding his brown eyes.

"You conceal your truths with flippant words, Elf, but the basic sense is correct. Whatever happens, success or failure, rests upon us."

"Nice to know," Male Elf grunted (not that he'd expected different, really). Gazing intently through ice-pale hair, he said,

"Any more startling news?"

"Never mind help from above," blurted Allat, whose face now resembled Gawain's, "What are _we_ getting out of all this? Wealth? Fame? A good time?"

Frodle smiled (scholar yes; stuffy, no).

"Very well, Allat. Since you ask, I shall consult for us all, individually."

He turned another page, frowned at its blank surface a moment, and then said,

"Sir Gawain of Espan, Knight of the Cross," followed by a word of silvery, streaming power. Lines of print appeared; clear at the very beginning, but increasingly blurred and strange by their off-kilter end.

"There is victory written here, with love and honor, if not wealth. Gawain, next you shall travel to an island of strange gods, whose people chew bitter leaves and speak with the dead. They are endangered by monsters from the sea, and require a champion. Beyond that, I cannot yet see."

The knight stroked his coppery moustache and nodded thoughtfully. He liked the 'love and honor' bit a good deal better than strange gods and chattersome ghosts, but on the whole, had few complaints. When the time came, the job would be done.

Frodle next turned his attention to their slouched and moody dark elf. Another blank page was consulted, this one not white at all, but shot through with colored threads and shifting light.

"Male Elf… I see trouble from an unexpected direction, springing from a source against which you have no defense. It looks…"

The halfling glanced up from his tome, clearly troubled.

"I think that it might be a woman, but it's hard to say. Does this mean anything to you? Remind you of any sudden acquisitions?"

Nice try, but Male Elf's expression was utterly closed and defiant.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't deal well with gibberish while sober. Got anything _important_ for me?"

The halfling reddened and ducked back over his tome.

"Um… yes. Male Elf, you must return to that which you left behind, and re-order a shattered house. Trying to escape the past will only breed chaos. The way forward lies through ash, flame and disaster."

This time, Frodle did not ask for the elf's opinion. He was a prickly being at the best of times; still more so when dead broke and dried out. On to a fresh page and their new meat-wall, then.

"Glud, though recently come, you are welcome, here. Rest and renewal lie before you, in the company of trusted friends. You will soon journey to the furthest ends of the world, where a land of snow and ice conceals haven."

The hulking creature seemed confused. Turning to Male Elf for guidance, Glud asked,

"This is before, or after? What does he want me to do, _now?"_

His dark elf employer set up a brief privacy ward with a single, sharp gesture. Then he leaned over and whispered something to Glud, whose uncomprehending scowl loosed slowly, like a fighter's clenched fist.

"Oh," said the half-orc, once the spell-ward was dropped. "I understand. _Later,_ I go to the ice."

But not much later. Pretty clearly, Glud's aches and bewildered exhaustion were deep. Moving on, Frodle cleared his throat, smiled nervously around the group, and turned over a new page. This time, it was their thief's name that he spoke.

"Allat, of the far-dreaming West… a closed mouth gathers no fist. At the topmost pinnacle, seek wisdom through silence and observation, and listen for the will of the gods."

"That's _it_?" the shade demanded, his unstable features not just crumpling with disappointment, but literally changing. His eyes grew markedly wider, for one thing, their depths more noticeably dark. "Wait and listen? What sort of dumb job is _that_ for a trained and…"

"The sort you've been given. Now, shut y'r noise and be still," Gawain told him, cutting off a burst of diplomacy from Frodle. "We've each had a reading, and… like it or not… been placed on a path. We start together before dawn tomorrow. Thereafter, we'll just have t' see what may come."

While Frodle closed and bound up his tome, the knight added,

"Master Elf, I'll leave supplies and provisions t' you. Frodle, Allat… see t' questioning your sources on th' matter of demons, faeries and th' state of roads north."

"What about you?" Allat demanded rebelliously. "While the elf goes _hunting,_ and we ask around, what are you going to do?" (Only part of his attention was on the answer, though; a small, darkling patch… like someone's cast-off shadow… glimmered at the corner of Allat's vision. Eavesdroppers?)

Said Gawain, rising to his feet with a tired grunt,

"I plan on spending my night at th' chapel, thief, building up spells and power."

Eight hours of kneeling on cold stone tended to earn one a great deal of spiritual force. Hurt, though. He'd be stiff in the saddle for days, afterward. In the here and now, Gawain braced for further whining from Allat, but the shape-shifter seemed distracted, which was all to the good.

They had their jobs. As Gawain's spell dropped and the common room's clamor rushed about them once more, five companions made ready to leave Meretown. They would have to ride far on the morrow.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 1, heading west at top speed-_

_Weird,_ was Scott Tracy's first reaction. That and a sort of guilty interest. Playing a monster didn't bother him, much. He'd gamed some, as a kid. And, as for public speaking, Scott had been the uncomfortable Prince Charming in a few past grade school productions. This wasn't much different, except that here he didn't have to kiss a scrunch-faced and giggling Missy Foster. No dressing up required, either; nothing to do but read between the lines for cues, and follow John's surprisingly nimble lead.

As he turned the yoke and leaned across his instrument panel to input a new course, Scott considered what he'd heard. Land of snow and ice at the end of the Earth, huh? Amundsen-Scott station it was, then.

"Hope Fred's got a light on and the screen door open," Scott murmured aloud. He yawned hugely, watching the ocean and sky swoop past his sharply banking aircraft. Soon enough, Scott was headed south to friends, fuel and shelter.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_In the cockpit of Thunderbird 2, soaring high above lightning-shot clouds-_

_"This_ is a game?" Virgil objected, shaking his tousled head. "Nuh-uh, kiddo. Games are football, monopoly, blackjack… stuff like that. _This_ is you BS-ing until I give up and fall asleep."

The big pilot obviously didn't get it, and didn't care to, but that was beside the point. All he really needed were dad's instructions. Glancing away from the view screen at Gordon, he asked,

"So, what is it dad wants us to do? Evacuate a low-lying island?"

His younger brother had recorded the entire session and was now filtering it through Brains' favorite decryption key. Fermat's words, their number and pacing, were the topic of main interest. Results appeared a few seconds later, in the form of verified GPS coordinates.

"In a manner of speakin'," Gordon replied, researching their destination. "Though we might have t' use force t' do so. It appears the natives are a touch shy with strangers."

"That's what I love about this job," Virgil grumped, punching in the coordinates as Gordon read them off. "Exotic locations, interesting people, great pay…"

Then, once he'd gotten 2 turned back into the sun,

"Just how shy are we talking about, here? Cold shoulder and frosty looks, or…"

"Seven years back, a WorldGov contact team wound up decoratively arranged at th' shoreline," Gordon responded, "with their heads mounted above them on sharpened pikes."

Virgil whistled softly.

"Fun. And we're going after this bunch… _why?"_

"Because they've no other way off the island, and there's no one else daft enough t' try."

"Uh-huh. I want a raise, mister, and better insurance," Virgil complained. He held to the course, though, dangerous or not, adding,

"Don't suppose we've got translation software that speaks 'Rampaging Headhunter'?"

"Better than that," Gordon smiled. "We've John."

Sort of.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Ile St. Martin, in the prototype rescue sub, some fifty feet underwater-_

Barracuda was in good shape. Better than he'd found her, actually… But the same could not be said for the troubled young man within. Having seen to the last repair and then cut off his link to Alan's damn game, John was prepared to head home. First, though, he had a humbling apology to make, and a very difficult request.

In a craft that looked to him like glowing wire-frame blocked in with panels of light, the astronaut leaned wearily back and said,

"Five…? Got a minute?"

Atto-second was more like it. Before the words were out, his computer responded with a rush of focused attention that had almost physical presence and warmth. Yes, she was here, and receiving.

"Okay, look… I'm sorry. About last night, I mean. I, um… shouldn't have gotten so angry."

Yeah. So far, so good (or stupid). The pressure inched a little deeper, not squeezing, exactly, but passing warmly inside, like he'd been coated with Vick's Cough Rub, or something. Anyhow, to that which believed him infallible, John squared his shoulders and said,

"You think that I'm free of error, Five, but you're wrong. I've detected something, and it's definitely a bug, not a feature."

The feeling shifted a bit, beginning to tingle, slightly. She didn't believe him; or didn't want to. But John plunged on regardless, saying,

"It seems that in certain functional states, when working closely with you, I've been able to program reality. That's got to go, Five, right the hell _now_. More than that… Even the memory files have to be deleted. I know I told you not to tamper with my head, but this is different."

He paused momentarily, and then rushed ahead with his next command, speaking to wandering lights in a lavender fog.

"Once I've gotten things squared away back home, I want you to delete the relevant memory strings from _both_ of us, and then I want you to overwrite the missing data with something harmless. Hard work, long hours, clean living… whatever it is that people expect to see when things get done… normally. Understood?"

Apparently so, for bits of mist and a great many flocking pixels re-assorted themselves before him, forming the ghostly hint of a young female. She said, and her voice came from everywhere at once,

_"Message received. There exists a convention among analog lifeforms: __promise__. Five promises that the coded instructions of John Tracy will run without error or deletion."_

"Okay."

Good to go… almost. Maybe someone else wouldn't have worried about the feelings of a quantum mechanism, but John did. Just because a machine was simply understood, didn't make her any less relevant.

"Thanks for the help," he said to the fading girl-form. "I guess we won't remember all this, afterward, but it's nice having you here to pitch in."

Nearly critical, in fact.

The entire quantum fog bank shimmered, flowering into something that was able to brush against him from all sides at once. He'd been forgiven, and it felt pretty good, though he didn't say so aloud.

"Back to the salt mine," he told her instead, reaching for the prototype's steering yoke. "I need to get home and put things in order, before my brothers start dropping out of the sky like a bunch of microwaved pigeons."

Even at top speed, John was several hours away from Tracy Island and far behind schedule. Too bad the food was gone, he reflected, inputting a course and throttling forward. Right about now, beer, cheese and warm tomato sauce would have addressed a horde of minor problems. (One of which was overhead and highly irritated.)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, in the midst of a rocky and perilous holding pattern-_

Wow, Alan thought to himself. Yippee-skippee. Sit around like a dang lump and let everyone else have all the fun. Whoop-dee-dang-doo!

Well, the boy reasoned (while Hackenbacker muttered and pecked away beside him at 3's instrument panel) he could always plan out the next game session, and get deeply, satisfyingly, even.


	27. 27: Business as Usual

Short little thing, mostly set up. Thanks for reviewing, Magrat, Tikatu, ED, and Panoply.

**27: Business as Usual**

_Within the RPG-_

Sir Gawain had detained Male Elf briefly, placing one raw-knuckled hand on the other's slim shoulder.

"Hold a moment, Master Elf," he said, rooting about in one of his scuffed leather belt pouches. He used the hand he'd healed the nymph's daughter with, hoping to score another large find, but this time the need must not have been so great, or the recipient as worthy. All that Gawain came up with was a hoar-hound sweet in a twist of stained paper, seven coppers and a handful of parched corn.

With a sinking heart, he handed the lot to Male Elf, who stared at the offering as though he'd been given a sack full of used goblin heads. Looking from the corn and coppers to Gawain's red face and back again, Male Elf said,

"What, exactly, am I supposed to do with _this_?"

"Trade f'r provisions," the Cross-Knight explained, in a remarkably even tone.

_"How?"_ the elf snapped.

"I'm sure I don't know. Use y'r imagination, Master Elf. You'll think of something."

What he _thought_ of wasn't polite, or printable. What he _did_ was grit his teeth and go to work, with seven damned coppers and a handful of corn (but the candy he gave to Glud, who liked sweets).

"We are selling corn?" the half-orc asked carefully, trying to make that dot of sugar last as long as possible by not much moving his jaws.

"Not exactly," his friend replied, heading for the stables. "The trick is to make it seem valuable… though, just once, I'd like to start off with a _real_ budget. Anyhow, watch and learn."

Meretown was a youngish human settlement, built over the site of an abandoned Sidhe. Mortal men were not its only denizens, nor the most numerous. Halflings dwelt there, together with imps, gnomes, a few elves (whom he avoided) and a number of intelligent animals. Custom aplenty, if only he had what they wanted.

So, the first thing that he did was to place a spell of like-attraction upon each of the coppers. Now the coins would gently draw more of their own kind, making each pierced copper disc worth, perhaps, three of its ordinary fellows. Not major spell-casting, by any means, but useful. He was able to trade up quite handily, unloading all seven coppers to a gnome shopkeeper for a loaf of bread and two silvers.

Now for the corn, while Glud first blinked beside him in wonderment and then did a little side-work, 'scaring' the bolder halfling and gnome cubs for bits of useful gear. The parched grain was spell-drilled and lightly ensorcelled, then strung (each separately) upon a knotted strand of hay. As Male Elf explained to the hovering females, each kernel now bore three days worth of glamourie, casting a fairness charm upon its wearer guaranteed to turn any man's head. They sold so quickly that he was forced to send out for more corn.

Meretown might be a bubbling cauldron of romantic intrigue for the next three days, but Male Elf was very soon as well-to-do as the mayor. And, by dawn, the party was extravagantly provisioned, indeed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Allat mumbled something to Frodle, and then slipped shapes to follow up that eavesdropping shadow. He was a strange being, Allat of the far-dreaming West, able to slide through the night in another's guise, but often forgetting to hold a single appearance. _Especially_ when upset.

Now, though, he took the form of a scavenging imp; rather a large one, as the one thing he couldn't do was change his overall mass… but the effect was good. After all, nearly everyone present was friendly, drunk, or both.

Down amid spattered rushes, Allat crept, keeping a sideways eye on the flickering shadow. Then, pretending to reach for a moldy and mumbled chicken bone, he lunged instead at the spot of shifting blackness. His outstretched hand encountered deep, intense cold, like the shadowy side of a mid-winter snow bank.

Allat was stubborn and curious, though; he didn't pull away but reached farther within, eventually finding something like a small, icy marble. The instant his hand closed upon it, the shadow vanished away, leaving Allat crouched on the floor in imp form, holding a very powerful orb of far-sight. Utterly black it was, and bound to the cursed will of a major demon lord. Despite a number of spell words, Allat could not turn the thing's alignment, nor look through it himself.

"Fine, then," he muttered, shifting appearance again to that of a wealthy lordling. "Be that way!"

Grateful to be off the dirty floor and feeling mischievous, Allat sauntered outside to the tavern's privy. There he flipped the adamant orb into a noisome waste-hole.

"You want to spy? Have a look at _that!_ Heh!"

Altogether, a fine night's work.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Several streets away, Gawain spent a weird and terrible evening at the chapel. Hardly had he knelt down before the holy symbol, head bowed and hands folded upon the hilt of his sheathed sword, than there rose such noise and disturbance that he fully expected to die.

Storms and scratchings beset the chapel's stone walls. _Things_ scurried across the roof, and strange, leering faces peered in at all the arrow-slits. Then came the visions, each worse than the last. In them, a laughing Gawain betrayed and murdered his friends in return for a kingdom, below, and the spell-granted hand of Anelle.

Lies, he told himself; nothing but blasted, infernal lies. Somehow, he found a way to focus, clutching hard at his sword and keeping his eyes trained upon the holy symbol before him. One spell after another was laid up, in a voice soon grown hoarse with non-stop chanting.

By morning, the imprint of his sword hilt was deep and red on his palms, and Gawain's voice was entirely gone. A priest wandered in at last to trim up and re-light the candles, yawning comfortably.

"Good morning to you, Sir Knight!" he said, smiling warmly at Gawain. "I trust that your prayers were effective?"

Sir Gawain couldn't answer him, but he did accept a hand-up and a tin pannikin of water from a nearby stone jar. Then, deeply shaken… hopefully ready… the knight went forth to meet his friends.


	28. 28: Game and Relativity

First edit.

**28: Game and Relativity**

_WNS Scorpion, sliding through poisoned waters for Baja, California-_

Jeff Tracy would have liked to ask questions. Very little of Fermat's babble had made any sense to the tall, tired man… especially with young Albert Murchison Jenkins the Fourth running on and on about Hyannisport. Or, no… it now seemed that he'd shifted topics to _"How in the hell I'm expected to find and refit a sailing yacht in time for the America's Cup?"_ Old money, Jeff was discovering, tended to be loud and myopic.

At the other end of their borrowed cabin, the females all clustered upon bunk and chair. There they shared out advice and toiletries, little things like a successful home phone call, hand cream and chap-stick being the source of much comfort. The conversation went this way and that, until Grandma Tracy shifted around a little on the edge of their hard bunk, passed the skin cream on to Carolyn Jenkins and asked,

"Your ma's been feeling poorly, I take it?"

The new Mrs. Jenkins hesitated a moment. Then, gazing around at the sympathetic faces of TinTin, Elspeth and Victoria Tracy, she began adjusting her blonde ponytail and pouring out her heart.

"Truly, Ms. Tracy, you've no _idea!_ Mummy's been declining for ever so long, now. She's… the poor old dear seems nothing more than voice and willpower, these days."

("Who nevertheless manages to steer her family and corporation from bed, like an aging empress," Albert whispered aside to Jeff.)

Carolyn dabbed at her ash-reddened blue eyes with a Kleenex. Like her bulkhead-lounging husband, she exuded an air of calcified wealth and robust physical energy. (And to anyone but the stupendously rich Tracys, she might not have spoken at all. At least, not outside the bounds of a save-the-world charity fundraiser.)

"Poor mummy's worked _so_ hard to raise Charles and I since daddy passed away in Morocco, and it's always been her wish to see me married to the right sort of young man. As a Cabot, I have a tradition to maintain, you see."

Everyone nodded and smiled, though the grand concerns of Carolyn Cabot-Jenkins seemed very distinct from their own.

"Well… once I'd come out at a succession of debutante balls, it was clear that I must ease mummy's heart and make an engagement, only…" here she spread her hands helplessly, "I hadn't the faintest idea whom to select! Imagine my predicament, please. Good blood and old money literally hanging ripe from the branches around me, but no… no _spark. _No," she giggled nervously, _"love._ It's silly, I know. Quite as much breeding and sense as the help, haven't I?"

Grandma Tracy only smiled again and patted her hand, so Carolyn took her small dog from TinTin's lap and went on, saying,

"No one caught my particular fancy, not in that 'forever-after' sort of way, but there was dear old Bertie, my friend since the days of Swiss Au Pairs and French boarding schools. So I… you'll hardly believe this, girls… I _asked him to marry me,_ and he said 'yes'. Our wedding united two cold roast families who hadn't been linked since the fifteenth century! Mummy was _so_ pleased, and everyone who matters at all was simply in _transports."_

She beamed at them, flicking a glance at the spot across the cabin where her husband appeared totally wrapped up in conversation with Jeff Tracy.

"Bertie's continued to be such a darling. Comfortable as brandy and a roaring fire, après-ski, don't you know. But I wonder… is that love? _Have_ I stumbled upon 'ever-after'?"

Grandma looked from the anxious young woman to her good friend and husband, Albert Jenkins. Then, she said gruffly,

"Not yet, girl… but it's real close to the surface. There's somethin' good wants to come out'n all this, if you an' him stays together long enough to let it grow."

Carolyn seized her withered hand and squeezed it, as grateful for the forecast as a first-time harbor pilot.

"Oh, I hope so, Ms. Tracy. I _do_ hope you're right. Over the phone just now, mummy hinted that she'd like to hold a grandchild before she passes on, and Charles is simply too young to provide heirs."

Against the far bulkhead, Albert leaned a bit closer to Jeff, muttering,

"And if the old battle-axe lingers long enough to make a _third_ arm-twisting demand, I shall be most put out."

Jeff smiled in reply, being well acquainted with interfering parents and Byzantine family politics. Oddly enough, he rather enjoyed the Jenkinses. They helped keep him busy during an otherwise blind and worrisome journey.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 1, headed due south-_

Blasting full-out in his lightning-fast rocket plane, Scott took nearly an hour to reach the Antarctic coast. The light there was decidedly weird, bouncing dimly from low, red sun to grey water to bleak stone. But even in these conditions, he could see that things had changed.

Over-flying the area, Scott saw shifted ice, acres of bare rock and patches of what looked like struggling green. Grass, maybe? Or late mosses? Whatever, this new Antarctic was a far cry from the ice-bound meat locker he'd barely survived all those years ago. Still scary, though, with ice and great boulders avalanching, cracking and booming all over the thawing continent. Pieces of long-buried pine forest were coming to light, even, revealing what had been once, and might be again.

Beyond concern for the rising sea levels, though, Scott wasn't much interested. His fuel was low and his energy flagging. He needed a break… rest… food…

_"Thunderbird 1 from Amundsen-Scott Station. This is Fred Darson, chief project scientist. Thunderbird 1, come in, over?"_

Scott's unshaven face relaxed. He smiled, hit the comm switch and replied,

"South Pole Station from Thunderbird 1. What can I do for you, Mr. Darson?"

On the view screen, he could see his own reflection dimly overlaid against a rushing vista of dark mountains and shattered ice. He looked tired and lumpy. Fred's voice continued, brisk and professional as a tour guide's,

_"Got a call from a mutual friend up north who said you might be headed this way, Thunderbird 1. We've got an open parking space and a few errands to run, if you feel like stopping by to pitch in."_

The rush of gratitude Scott felt was akin to that he'd experienced when he and John had been found and rescued in long-ago Kansas. Then, it had been Air Force uniforms and loud, joking voices. Now it was promised shelter from an old friend. Still, in the absence of Shadowbot and private channels, he had to be cautious. Anyone at all might be listening.

"Guess I could divert for a day or so, if you've got some mail that needs delivering, or an out-bound crewman."

_"Both, actually,"_ Fred returned. _"So, come on over, and welcome to the South Pole, Thunderbird 1."_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, arcing high above the grim clouds, while headed east-_

Sunlight flooded the cockpit, bright and clean as though something hadn't just thrust itself from crumpled seafloor to spuming grey surface. But that was beside the point. In want of advice and assistance, Gordon called in to John. No names and careful phraseology, needless to say; they weren't private.

"Thunderbird 5 from Thunderbird 2. In a position t' receive, are you?"

_"Yeah. Loud and clear. What's on your mind, 2?"_

Beside the swimmer, Virgil shook his head, but Gordon smiled at the voice-only comm. John sounded well, if rather bored.

"As it happens, I'm out with a mate and headed f'r trouble, and it would, erm… bring considerable ease to us both if you might provide a bit of translation."

_"Uh-huh…"_ There was a brief pause, as though somehow, John was checking their course and destination.

_"See what you mean, 2. Okay… let me brush up my proto-Polynesian and figure a way to say 'We come in highly indigestible peace'. In the meantime, lock the doors and stay out of spear-cast."_

"Understood, Thunderbird 5. Thanks f'r your help."

His game-fellow and brother was a peculiar sort, but absolutely reliable. Drop away for weeks on end, he would, only to pop up precisely when and where one most needed him.

_"FAB. Talk to you as soon as I've got something solid, 2. Out."_

Shouldn't take terribly long, Gordon reasoned, as John had very little else to do than a bit of repair work and washing up.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Island Base-_

Luckily, the island's sole natural harbor lay in a position to block most of the biggest waves. Otherwise, Barracuda would have had no place to safely put in. John's thinking was too fast for the real-world situation, his computer-enhanced reactions exceeding the prototype's ability to respond. Because of this, he came in all at a rush and nearly crashed the small sub. Not quite, though, thanks to probabilities that shifted from one pile to another like poker chips at a green felt gaming table.

He was going to have to re-synchronize with reality, because Five couldn't fix _every_thing. There were no mooring rings, and no more dock. Even the boat houses and yacht were gone, reduced to sodden, grey-coated rubble.

John 'tied up' by adapting the prototype's force shield to envelope the sub and a nearby massive rock. She might get dented a little that way, but ought to stay in one place, so long as her batteries held out.

Things weren't so good outside, as John discovered when he climbed up for a first look around. Barracuda's wet deck tilted and rocked beneath his feet. Wind gusted and waves toyed with tree trunks, litter and dead fish. Clouds hung heavy and low; a bruised grainy purple that bled constant, weeping ash. It smelled like decay and spent matches out there, even through his air mask. But something more than wind was moving.

Perhaps summoned by Five, a spidery maintenance bot was dragging its way from cliff-side tunnel to shore, leaving a stuttering track through the ash. Hard to tell from this distance without consulting that dangerous other view, but the mech appeared to have lost a few legs.

Hefting a tool kit, John made his way out through Barracuda's pale force bubble; from boat to rock to rolling, debris-laden surf he went, and then to shore. It was the mess that bothered him most, the chaos that set him to tuneless humming and formulae quotation. He couldn't stand messes.

The maintenance bot came on, jerkily determined as an injured man crawling for help. John, deliberately blank but for checklists and primes, knelt down beside the battered thing and got to work. He had a few spare battery packs and a cold-solder tool, plus about fifty flash-drives' worth of diagnostic programs. Maybe he cared, too.

"Rough day, huh?" he remarked, trading a bit of his soul for another look at those field lines and floating numbers. _There_ was the problem. Easy fix, once you knew where to cut and what to do.

Ten minutes' work had the remaining six legs portioned around and the rest of the bot patched up well enough to resume function. John patted its scuffed plastic carapace, and looked around himself, feeling like a man who'd just shifted the first small pebble of a massive landslide; one down, and holy shit to go.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_In the RPG, as far below Midworld as the land of Men lay beneath Heaven-_

Three beings were met together to discuss a minor delay; a slight and amusing perturbation of flow. They were ageless things, driven by curiosity, as a sated and bored cat is. But driven still more by the newly-won chance to claim lives and territory. It was an old game, but a diverting one, all that made their immortality bearable.

The _where_ of their meeting would have made no sense to fleshly beings. Too many directions, angles and flickering shapes. The _when_ lay outside everything else, in a pent-breath slice of forever. Demon lords had no need of such quaint notions as place and time. They also had no real need of physical bodies, but sometimes took themselves forms, as you might put on a shirt.

Three, then, because that was the number for a quorum. First was the deadly Hooded One, whose appetite for terror had long gone unslaked. His garment was a dark and shifting thing which trailed off into mist. Maybe there were eyes in there, certainly a grave-cold voice, but that was all.

Next, the Crowned Skull, a thing born of conquest and raging hatred; that which stalked the battle fields of Midworld, drinking blood and breathing screams. Third came the Queen of the Lost, receiver of the unburied, reviver of corpses. She was pale and icy and hollow-eyed, her power growing with each lonely death and last sob. Cobwebs were her clothing, the end of all things her true desire.

A sort of dark pillar hung amidst them, into which each could search and look upon what transpired above. In it, the mortal ants they prodded and fed upon crept over Midworld, blind and helpless as worms. Gazing past human illusions of time and space, the Hooded One said,

_"It seems we've been offered a bit of sport."_


	29. 29: An Early Start

Thanks, ED and Panoply, for your kind reviews. Another short one. Re-edited.

**29: An Early Start**

_Within the RPG, outside the Crossroads Tavern-_

Dawn was a playful rumor spread by moist wind and feckless birds; a silvery patch on the eastern horizon, and not yet day. Still, it heartened Sir Gawain, who'd just about gotten his death from wild visions and cold stone floors. Quite simply, he ached all over, and the terrible images he'd witnessed bit deep.

Fortunately, the alley-walk from chapel to tavern wasn't a long one. Also fortunately, St. George smelt him coming and pulled free of Male Elf's hold to meet his weary young master. The grunts and ringing hooves and snuffing nostrils were tonic, as always. Sometimes, there was nothing at all like a friendly horse. Exhausted, Gawain threw an arm over the big animal's neck, and buried his face against white hide.

They were joined at the tavern's gate by something of a cross between slinking wolf and spidery ape, with a pelt that melted from sleek hair to ridged, dark scales. His voice still weak, Gawain simply nodded at Allat, who'd bounded onto St. George's deep leather saddle.

"Good morning, there, knightly one! Caused any good miracles, lately? Divided the seas? Raised the dead? Or are we still working on basic food multiplication? Because I'm thinking…"

St. George's long head snaked back and sideways, and his large teeth snapped warningly at Allat. Good job, too, as Gawain was not in a mood to be taunted.

The shade hopped out of reach and held his peace for a time, while Gawain led St. George back through the courtyard, one hand to the warhorse's arching neck. His knees and back hurt, but time and a potion would see to all that.

Male Elf met them halfway, gesturing behind himself at a string of four well-stocked horses. True, one of them was Frodle's wee pony, Dapple, and the second a nameless grey beast belonging to the dark-elf, but the rest were new, and all carried provisions. Impressed, Gawain clasped the elf's near shoulder and cocked a questioning eyebrow.

"I used my imagination," Male Elf replied, a touch smugly. Quite obviously, his 'hunting' had gone well.

By this time, small Frodle had trundled up to them, doing his best to navigate the morning-slick cobbles and root through his satchel at one and the same time.

"Sir Gawain," he said urgently, having located a constantly updated map, "We _must_ leave! I had thought… when you spoke of an early start… that you actually _meant_ it. At this rate we might as well engage criers and publish our intent in the town square!"

The knight gestured him to silence, for both Glud (who'd stalked up during the halfling's lecture) and Male Elf were staring at the sky, Glud sniffing audibly. Something was coming.

The dark-elf whispered a short phrase. All at once, from Gawain's perspective, the entire party vanished; horses, provisions and all. Now the tavern dreamt on alone, the swallows in its thatch just waking, the courtyard roosters beginning to stir, a thin curl of cook-fire smoke twisting upward. A pretty scene, quickly shattered by a vast, clattering flight of noisy rooks; big, dark birds with gawping beaks and red, searching eyes.

Like intelligent smoke, this flock blackened the sky, cawing amongst themselves and sending forth darting, fluttering scouts, a few of which swooped through the stone court, close enough to touch. Gawain needlessly held his breath, for the dark-elf's spell of concealment was a strong one, proof against a few hundred spying birds. But Frodle was right. They needed to go.

When the last drifting feather and fading screech announced the flock's departure, Male Elf lifted his magicks. Allat then shifted to a more humanoid form, saying,

"So… you've probably figured this out already, Sir G, but we're being watched. Somebody down below would like to re-plan our little trip, with a few cozy stops in prison, or maybe the pits of roasting doom. You know, fun stuff."

Frodle had to agree with the shade. Over a lake-scented breeze, he said,

"All of the main roads out of town have their shadow wardens, Gawain. _Especially_ those tending north."

The Cross-Knight nodded thoughtfully, drinking deep from a potion flask the halfling gave him. Once voice and strength had returned, so did a desperately sneaky plan. All of the _main_ roads were covered? What of an ancient and ruined one, then? One only a madman would attempt?

He gazed beyond the tavern's thatched roof to the spot where a lone, swooping ribbon of pale ivory caught and returned the sun's light. Like a rainbow it ascended, with distant tributaries from all major cities of Men, Elves and Dwermer. All the way to the transport gate of Faerie, this route had once ascended… and it led north.

"They'll watch in vain, then," Gawain told his gathered companions, "as we're takin' th' sky road."

He might well have set off a mage-bomb. Frodle all but dove into his satchel, seeking the buried tome like a plump little mole flinging soil. Allat shifted with a _pop _into something round, yellow and wide-eyed. Glud rumbled uneasily. Only Male Elf seemed unperturbed, muttering that they'd be no deader _there _than _here,_ but ought to be moving, in any case, for the morning was already advanced.

"Rooks aren't the only spies in their stable," he whispered aside to Gawain, "nor the most subtle. _Gone,_ is my advice, as quickly as possible."

…Which was how they came to depart Meretown so hurriedly, under cover of deep magic and by such an insanely unlikely route. Once, when the Faerie Sidhe beneath Meretown had been a thriving colony, its sky gate had seen major, bustling traffic. Now the stone-crowned hill lay abandoned; well within the city walls, but without a single mortal inhabitant. No one anymore had the words that would open the old hill. No one cared to set foot between the high stone pillars that warded this end of a long, broken road. Not even children. Not even thieves, murderers or drunks. _Everyone _knew better. Everyone, that is, but Gawain of Espan.

"This is safe?" Glud pestered anxiously, tugging at the sleeve of his dark-elf friend. That ribbon of ivory had no banisters or guard-rails, and it rose unsupported very high in the air. "Old magic could fail, or there could be holes. Bad place for a fight, I think."

Frodle it was who answered him, for Male Elf had no response but a shrug. From his perch amid the parcels and sacks on his pony's back, tome in hand, the scholar said,

"We've done the unexpected, Glud. It is daylight, now, and enough magic lingers in this Sidhe to hold off infernal pursuit. It is the air we must look to, especially after dark. _Then,_ I would earnestly recommend returning to earth. For now, though, we ought to do well enough."

Glud didn't much like it, but the half-orc wasn't paid to be happy, _or_ to think. He was paid to fight, and to follow orders. Striding back up to Male Elf, he climbed the smoothly-lawned hill, passed between oddly-worked columns of stone, and took his first, hesitant steps into the sky.


	30. 30: Plan B

First draft, edits to come. Thanks, ED, Tikatu and Panoply for your recent kind reviews.

**30: Plan B**

_Scorpion-_

Possibly because everyone else had genuine work to do, the trip to WASP's Pacific Fleet Base seemed longer to Jeff than it did to the others. Fermat stayed busy with his PDA, narrowly avoiding detection by the boat's comm officer. Kyrano labored to make their service-issue meal packs worth eating, while the ladies chattered about life in general; babies, marriage… things like that. Albert Jenkins had found a notepad and stylus, and was thoroughly occupied with designing himself a sleek new racing yacht. Jeff actually missed the young man's Harvard-confidant company. Mostly, though, the 'director' was bored. Other than passing occasional notes to Fermat, Jeff had nothing whatever to do.

He tried touring _Scorpion,_ but only once, for his presence in the midst of well-oiled military business caused deep consternation among the men and (he heard later) a red-faced shouting fit from Captain Strangeways. Billionaire former astronaut or no, Jeff Tracy was expected to keep to his cabin despite the syrup-slow passing of time.

Eventually, _Scorpion_ put in at an undersea shipyard in Baja. The spot was both naturally sheltered and warded by strong sea-walls. A good thing, too, as even this far from the new island's tremors and gas-jets, the swells were dangerously rough. _Scorpion_ passed through a set of nested barriers (Fermat informed them all) then along a flooded slipway to her berth. This part of the base was composed of artificial caverns and a re-supply pier, according to his cleverly hacked blueprints.

There was nothing detectable from their cabin but altered hull noises, "all hands" alerts, engine stop and the brisk sounds of tying-up. Progress in the right direction, but still slow, for in this vessel, and on this cruise, passengers came very far below ship's business.

When at last the time came, their cabin was among the first unloaded, its occupants guided back through _Scorpion_ and out onto a concrete pier by a nervous yeoman. Someone else took charge of them, there; a WorldGov functionary with a badly tailored suit and a constipated expression. He had an old-fashioned data-board, too, which he consulted with prim frequency.

The little knot of Tracy and Jenkins refugees paused on the damp grey pier beside _Scorpion's_ sleek form, gazing around themselves at bright floodlights and loading cranes; hearing crisply-called orders above the constant slap of oily water. The temperature was neutral, but TinTin shivered anyhow, feeling terribly out of place, here. Putting her hand to the small wad of soil she'd wrapped up in scraps and thrust in a pocket, the girl pressed closer to Grandma and Fermat.

This WASP base was so much like home, and yet not; wrong uniforms, wrong vessel, wrong situation. Not one of the boys was here to stride, lope or slouch forward to offer a handshake, a hug or quick shoulder clasp. Already, she didn't like California, and was growing deeply suspicious of WASP.

"Tracy and… Jenkins?" their official handler asked aloud, saying the names as though they were infectious; as if Tracy-Jenkins was something you could catch, and ought to be inoculated against.

Out of the sub, though, Jeff was on firmer ground and increasingly confident. He stepped forward now with an out-thrust hand and fixed smile.

"Jeff Tracy, Tracy Aerospace. How do you do?"

The WorldGov functionary's constipation worsened, or else he didn't like interruptions. At any rate, his expression pinched further and he swiveled his head to look at Jeff, reflected light shining from square glasses and bald scalp.

"I am very well, indeed, Mr. Tracy. On schedule thus far, and determined to remain so. To that end, there will be short debriefing interviews for each of you, after which, should everything 'check out', you'll be released to the local hospital."

Carolyn Jenkins slumped against her husband with a deep, weary sigh. Sensing her state, the purse-sized dog she held growled just as threateningly as twelve ounces of pampered fluff could manage. Said Albert, equally upset,

"Look here, fellow! These people are exhausted. They've been driven from their estate by misfortune, just as my wife and I were capsized and nearly killed at sea. Surely…"

But Jeff raised a hand, halting Jenkins in mid-speech.

"Thank you, Albert, but I can handle this. Our response, Mr.…?"

"Cleeves."

"Mr. Cleeves, then. Here's the bottom line, sir: we are American and World citizens who have committed no crime."

(That Cleeves and WorldGov knew about, anyway. Illegal rescue efforts and hacking _Scorpion's_ comm might have raised the man's blood pressure, but Jeff wasn't giving anything away.)

"I have people waiting and important business to attend to, as do Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins. No one here is in the mood to sit though your paper-pushing nonsense, especially since WorldGov depends on Tracy Aerospace designs and technology, both of which could be sold elsewhere for more money. Now, send your little questionnaire to my secretary… no, never mind that. She's busy. Send it to her _assistant_, and someone will look it over."

There are calm, angry men, and there are explosive ones. Cleeves was the calm sort.

"Well," he said softly, "far be it from WorldGov to interfere with the vital affairs of Jeff Tracy."

He made a note of some sort on his data-board, light flashing from glasses and shiny head as he glanced down and then up again.

"You're free to depart these premises, Mr. Tracy, with all of your friends and dependents. We shall simply have to consider the interviews waived, until the happy occasion of our _next_ meeting."

Jeff should have been gladder to leave, but something made him keep glancing around behind himself, right to the point when a Tracy Aerospace helijet touched down at the base airport. And, indeed, there was a surprise aboard, in the form of a most unexpected person.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, buffeted by ash and high winds-_

Word finally came from John, when they were just fifteen minutes from storm-wracked Vatupele, a worn and low-lying island. Virgil attended to flying and choosing a safe landing site, while Gordon opened the recorded message, which included several ideas for possible drop-off locations and a Proto-Polynesian phrase list. The words were oddly familiar to one who'd spend several years in the South Pacific:

_M-atay tasik qalur. Pa-nahik i-dalem tinaqi i ni derun-manuk, si-ia layap i-kanaha._

Translated, they said:

"Death comes from the sea. Walk into the bowels of the thunder-god-bird. He will fly you to shelter."

…Or some such. Gordon sent a response thanking his older brother, and then practiced repeating the phrases in his deepest, most resonant tones (somewhat hampered by a tendency to laugh at his own booming Moses-voice). Still, so long as he didn't mispronouce anything too frightfully, they ought to get the gist.

"You want _me_ to say it?" Virgil asked him at last, as they banked low over the crescent-shaped island.

"No, thank you. I've got this. It's just that I keep wonderin'… how do we know he hasn't got me sayin' somethin' perfectly potty? Like: Lo, thou mayest appease th' ruddy storm-lords by offerin' up the short one."

"Because the situation's too serious, and John doesn't think like that," Virgil responded. He had to speak loudly, because the engines were straining, their shrill scream making it very difficult to hear. Virgil wasn't having much luck finding the natives, either.

Switching to infrared, he added,

"Alan… yeah, maybe. _His_ version would say something like: 'Tracy, the _other_ white meat'. John doesn't joke around that way, though. Never has."

Thank Heaven.

"We're going to have to hurry, though," the pilot decided, while Gordon went on chanting his Proto-Polynesian mantra. "I'm not picking up a whole lot of heat signatures, here. Twenty… maybe thirty people, if they're huddled close together."

The island was composed of fragile volcanic tuff, crumbling slowly away in the jaws of a vicious sea. Question was, could its frightened inhabitants be induced to leave home, and if not, how much danger were the brothers willing to risk, dragging an unwilling crowd to safety?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

The mess was too great; too much for one man to deal with. There was an icy and pushing sensation inside him, like a bubble about to burst. _Anxiety,_ John suddenly named it. He was _anxious_ because this everything-in-the-wrong-place, nothing-where-it-belongs, utter ruin seemed overwhelming as hell. Even focusing at the edges, at the turbulent seashore, he couldn't decide where to start. Visuals, maybe? As in, the less he saw, the better?

Followed by his newly-repaired friend, John left the windy harbor, heading through a cracked and crumbling tunnel toward the house and labs. Power was out, he noticed, and even the emergency lamps were sputtering. Not good. Worse than that; not safe. Not when he had brothers scattered literally everywhere, in need of advice and coverage.

Looked like there was just one move left to play, then. Stopping about halfway along the tunnel, John spoke aloud, saying,

"Five, I need an island-wide virtual programming environment, please. I want one-to-one size correspondence and full, 4-D visuals. Increase locally perceived time flow by a factor of… 10 to 1... and give me an open interface."

His ID chip warmed, and a succession of small lights flared beneath the maintenance bot's smoky-dark carapace. A wall camera creaked laboriously around to face him, as did another surviving service drone. Then, the damaged physical universe simply vanished, replaced by tangled field lines and leaky, hissing code. Flickering numbers and neon-dead pixels littered his endless field of view, but this sort of shimmering chaos he understood. _This_ he could deal with.

There was the mountain, swelling from below with potential trouble. There, the failed generators and inert repair bots, scattered like dead wasps on a hot window sill. Behind lay the weakened house and Thunderbird 1's shattered hangar, all of them reduced to wire-frame and code, his second language.

"Perfect, thanks," John remarked, speaking to that which surrounded and listened; that which gave him everything she thought he needed, like it or not, whatever the cost.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 1-_

Scott reached the South Pole Station with little fuel and less remaining alertness. Rescues were a draining business, especially when you had no home to return to. Fortunately, International Rescue had made a few friends in its time, and quite a few of them were right here.

The ice cap was thinner than Scott remembered, scored by deeper crevasses. Even in the faint glow of station lights and landing beacons, he could see that. The ice had stopped moving, at least. That was something.

Guided in by Fred Darson and his own onboard systems, Scott brought the rocket plane down on a freshly-bulldozed runway. The landing was surprisingly smooth, considering his frazzled state of mind and nearly empty fuel tanks. Reflexes or something…

Dimly (through bottom-of-the-world darkness and blowing snow) Scott glimpsed the new polar station, hunkered about a mile away, with an ice tractor beating a path toward him. Hitting the comm switch, he smiled and said,

"Thanks for sending out the welcome wagon, Mr. Darson."

The reply was cheerfully prompt, and very warm.

_"No problem, Thunderbird 1. It's a rough night for hitchhiking, and we hate to lose visitors. Bad for funding, you understand."_

"Yes sir," Scott responded, unstrapping to slowly and shakily rise. "I know exactly what you mean. We've had our share of bad publicity."

…But every once in awhile, a genuine ally. Every so often, a stroke of actual luck.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3-_

Alan, with time on his hands and nothing particular to do, was a jumbled wad of pure, snickering mischief. He had random numbers at the ready, and monsters behind every corner. After all, what's a game without risk?


	31. 31: Give and Take

Very short.

**31: Give and Take**

_Thunderbird 2, threatened by high seas and raging wind over Vatupele-_

Here was the plan: Virgil would circle overhead, four times. Why four? Because grandma had always called it a lucky number, and they hadn't time to go around any longer than that. While Virgil flew circles, Gordon would engage the Bird's loudspeakers and repeat the phrases that John had sent them, keeping his voice as rich and prophetic as possible.

In the meantime, if the natives understood his warning and invitation… if they accepted it… they'd come to the spot where Thunderbird 2 visibly and majestically touched down. Ordinarily, Gordon would have met them, below. But these were not your _usual_ rescue victims. These were deeply suspicious primitives who'd greeted each previous embassy with violence and death. Best bet was, as John had suggested, staying well out of sight and spear-cast.

And if the Vatupeleans refused to come aboard? If the sight of an open and waiting 'thunder-god-bird' drove them screaming back into danger? Well, Virgil figured they'd try coaxing the natives aboard with a few stock Tahitian words of welcome and comfort, but unbeknownst to him, Gordon had other (and riskier) plans.

Their cell phones began beeping in mid-flight, but both young men cut them off, having no time to check in with Alan. Whatever their brother wanted could wait until the current rescue was safely concluded.

Virgil concentrated on flying, wishing that the wind would let up and the ash die down. He brought Thunderbird 2's enormous green bulk as low over the island as possible, past blown-over trees and scowling stone idols, over smashed war canoes, shredded nets and ruined palm huts. Gordon's amplified voice spoke words of ancient command all the while… with a pronounced midlands accent that no doubt puzzled their targets.

Virgil eyed his infrared scanner, hoping to see movement from the twenty huddled blips below. At first, nothing happened. Then, midway through his third circuit, some of the colorful people-smudges began milling around.

"Looks like we've got some takers," Virgil commented, as he banked grandly into their last pass. "They're getting pretty agitated, down there."

"That's good, is it?" Gordon asked, taking a break from thunderous prophecy.

"Maybe. Better than no movement at all. Thing is, kiddo, even assuming we trick them aboard, how do we get them strapped in? Or, do we just skip that part, fly level and hope for the best?"

"One bit at a time," Gordon responded. "Let's get t' the point where we've passengers t' worry about at all, shall we?"

Back to the microphone, then, and one last booming invitation. Next, selecting the bald crown of a nearby hill, Virgil brought Thunderbird 2 to ground, and Gordon ended his summons. Once their engine noise faded from bellow to grumble, Virgil lowered the cargolifter's four hydraulic legs. They settled onto the sparsely covered hilltop with separate, sharp cracking sounds. When they were down, and his sensors showed good contact, Virgil Tracy unlocked the pod and engaged the Bird's lift mechanism. Now, with the whirr, click and humming of powerful motors, Thunderbird 2 rose on her four slender legs. The winds pushed and worried at her, though not as wildly as they had in Antarctica; nothing, ever again, seemed likely to be as bad as all that, and it was weird to think that Scott had been sent there for shelter. But, hey… Virgil had other things to worry about.

Fighting the wind, he increased his lateral stability fields, shunting aside part of the air's clawing force. On the main view screen the images changed slightly, showing more swirling-dark sky than flattened grass and bare rock. The entire process took about five minutes, but once 2 was at her highest stance, clearing the pod, Virgil triggered ramp-door extension.

Strong ratchets and locks released their grip with a series of loud _clangs_. Then the ramp fell outward, crashing against the ground as Thunderbird 2 opened her wide 'mouth'.

"They'll not mess about with 4, will they?" Gordon fretted, for the small yellow sub sat upon her rails in mid-pod, an open invitation to spears, stones, curses and the like.

"Not if I can help it," Virgil assured him, setting up the waterbird's protective force shield. A serious energy drain, but one he was willing to risk, if it meant keeping Thunderbird 4 operational.

"Now," said Virgil, "repeat that message one more time, and let's see who comes calling."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 1, Antarctica-_

The growling ice-tractor reached Thunderbird 1 in less than ten minutes, drawing as close as it could alongside. Scott Tracy would have to brave the outdoors, but only for a second or two. Then he'd be safe in a climate-controlled cabin. Better still, the low-slung ice crawler was towing fuel tanks filled with the same powerful mix that Amundsen-Scott's NASA crew used to launch weather satellites. Thunderbird 1 was about to have dinner. And so would her pilot, once he'd helped hook up the feed lines and seen to his aircraft. Not a problem; filled with new energy, Scott was already out of the cockpit and headed aft.

_"Hullo the house!" _someone called over the comm. Sounded like Ahmet Khalid, Fred's son-in-law and the station's chief mechanic. _"Somebody in there need a lift and refueling?"_

"In the worst possible way," Scott replied, "and I'll be more than glad to run a few errands, in return."

_"That is good to know, my friend,"_ said Ahmet, as he opened his tractor's outer hatch, and Scott made ready to disembark, _"for I am one of the 'errands'."_

"Seriously? This, I've got to hear."

He had a lot of catching up to do, apparently. But, in a hurry or no, you didn't just stroll out into the Antarctic night in your street clothes. You suited up, and then some. Struggling into the thermal under garment, dense liner, thick body suit, mask, gloves and hooded parka was a cumbersome business, but necessary, as Scott rather hoped to stay alive (and incognito).

Finally, as well protected as modern technology could arrange, he was ready to leave the creaking and settling plane. Maybe it was the RPG's fault… Scott Tracy was ordinarily the least imaginative of men… but he found himself talking back to Thunderbird 1, saying,

"We'll have you topped up in no time, hon. Stand by for takeoff at 0630 tomorrow morning, and keep running repairs in the meantime. I'll be back."

Then he patted the hatch frame, as though forty tons of metal, glass and circuitry could somehow hear and respond. On the bright side, there was no one around to laugh at all his exhaustion-bred foolishness.

Anyhow, pressing buttons was a real problem in gloves as thick as those Scott now wore. Three failed attempts to open the hatch led him to take off his right glove and mitten and try again, bare-handed. Worked like a charm; code in, hatch-side LED green, then door open… letting in the tractor's running lights and air like a frozen-sharp gasp.

Maybe the South Pole _was_ a little warmer, but it sure didn't seem that way to Scott Tracy. Refueling in this icebox was going to be pure joy, he could already tell.


	32. 32: Other Worlds

First draft. Thanks, ED, Panoply, Tikatu, Grumpy Magrat and Cathrl, for your recent reviews and comments. The RPG will reappear soon.

**32: Other Worlds**

_Leaving Baja, California, in a Tracy Aerospace helijet-_

Surprises come in all shapes and forms, and this one certainly floored Jeff Tracy. His ex-wife was aboard the aircraft, sitting curled like a child on one of its opulent leather seats. Blonde and shy, she was very beautiful and strangely irritating; as though, every time he expected a right-hand turn, she somehow managed to swing left. Wonderful.

Jeff snapped an order to the pilot and then grated out a few introductions, for the Jenkinses were hitching a ride as far as San Francisco and could not be ignored. Mostly, though, he left the pleasantries to his mother.

"Jenny-girl!" the old woman greeted her once daughter-in-law. "You come, after all!"

She offered a hand and Gennine took it, rising from her seat with a nervous glance at Jeff, to kiss Grandma's cheek.

"Well… after you called from the island… I thought… I mean, I was concerned for Alan, and you'd said…"

Victoria snorted, clasping Gennine Rivers' slim hand as tightly as she could.

"_Course_ you're welcome to come along and see him!" she said. Sitting down with a weary sigh, Grandma then patted the seat beside her. "Ain't _all_ of us divorced you, Jenny-girl. Just some."

Gennine nodded and sat down, tearing up despite her resolve to keep an untroubled aura. Bracing herself, the Feng-Shui expert and crystallographer next turned to face her ex-husband, who looked decidedly grim.

"Are the boys safe?" she asked. "Alan and Gordon? And the others, too, naturally…" Although she'd never been close to Scott, Virgil or John, they were important to her son.

Jeff framed his reply very carefully. They weren't alone in the helijet's insulated cabin, and while his gut instinct was to trust Albert and Carolyn Jenkins, he wasn't yet sure. The engines ran up for a fast take-off as Jeff said,

"Alan and the others are busy, but safe, Gennine. They're off seeing to various aspects of the, er… family business."

Of course, the Jenkinses would assume that he meant Tracy Aerospace. They might have wondered at Gennine's wide blue eyes and sudden worried expression, though.

"Not… not _actively_ seeing to the business, I hope? Surely, Alan's too young for all of that… that contracting and high finance, Jeff."

The helijet lifted from its pad with a smooth, powerful jerk; safely airborne at last. Her pilot called back to announce their itinerary, giving Jeff a little creative think-time.

"He's present as an observer, Gennine. There's nothing to worry about, except that he'll fall in love with big business instead of tea-leaves and card-reading."

Maybe he spoke more harshly than intended, because Gennine shrank against the seat cushions like he'd struck her. _Damn,_ she was nothing at all like Lucinda; not on the inside, at least. Already, he wanted to shake her. Instead, Jeff keyed open the passenger cabin's wet bar and offered his family and guests a drink. Martinis for the adults, with apple flavoring for Gennine and Mrs. Jenkins and canned sodas for TinTin and Fermat.

"As a matter of fact," Jeff decided aloud, handing his ex-wife her cocktail, "just to make you happy, I'll call in to… I'll touch base with John and find out how everyone's doing."

Gennine gave him a gratefully soft little smile, but reaching the island turned out to be tougher than he'd expected.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Island Base/ cyber-version:_

His mind and decision-making skills were largely locked up, tightly harnessed for the parsing and solving of complex problems. In the process, he'd lost track of time and physical space, neither of which had much meaning when your thoughts were programs that altered the world around you. Anyhow, he had a headache, and there was too much going on to worry about prying loose the actual traces and threads of reality.

For one thing, John was back in his Princeton dorm room (at least half of which seemed to open onto the Moon Station). For another… his friends were there; people he knew he _would_ eventually know, from the IMS, NASA, and Mars. But these were ghostly, yet. They'd never experienced this cyberverse, and so had no physical presence, here. Future memories, they were; of wives and friends and brief, painful loves. Denice and Rick he could talk to and touch, though. He could embrace the mechanic and back-slap the Cubs fan. Just as (a little later) he could respond to Drew's shoulder rub and warm kisses.

"Morning, loser," she said to him, offering up a bowl of Spaghetti-Os with hot sauce and sprinkle cheese. (That's what his grandmother called it, anyway; her idea of spaghetti was wagon-wheel pasta drenched in tomato sauce and canned cheddar soup, no "expensive damn sprinkle cheese" required.)

"Get up, stretch out the kinks, and have something to eat, Tracy. I'm serious, you're a mess."

Sounded good to John, so he pushed his rolling chair away from the computer work station and reached for his girlfriend. Smiling, she set the food bowl on a file cabinet and herself on his lap. _Definitely, _not reality. Here, the added weight didn't compress his chair, or tip it over. Nor did his legs fall asleep beneath her. Very faintly, John could sense stiffness, hunger and thirst, but only distantly. Out there in the real world, his body might have needed attention. In here, his mind was too satisfied to care.

He was more interested in the lithe female under all that torn lace and cammo than he was in his food, but he did manage to eat a little, giving some to Drew, as well. As usual, she'd only brought one serving, so they had to share.

"How's it coming?" she asked, once he'd downed a few mouthfuls of round pasta and spiked orange sauce.

"Okay, I guess. Someone's been asking?" He'd already spotted the swarm of inquiries flashing away beside his fish tank.

"Yeah. Your brother."

"Which one?" John pulled away from her welcome-back nuzzling to look up and ask.

"Alan. Kiddo's called a couple of times now, and so has Big Berfert, your dad."

Nice. There were far more than four alerts darting around the room, though.

"Is that all?"

Drew shrugged, interspersing her answer with little kisses and quick bites.

"Kind of. Your miracle-baby's been fielding all the rest, giving them the standard Tracy form letter, or something. You know… 'Good afternoon and thank you for calling Tracy Aerospace. Your call is very important to us. Please hold the line and an operator will be with you momentarily...' That kind of thing. She's been quite the busy quantum entity."

"Okay."

God, he'd missed her; coarsely over-dyed hair... scratched, pale skin... scattered piercings and all. Her tongue-stud brushed the outside of his right ear, which was, yeah… pretty interesting.

"I'll pick up in a minute."

"Forget picking up," Drew told him, forcing a stern look to cover the laughter in her garnet-contact eyes. "You need to _wake_ up. The real world doth summon, Tracy, and you've been under for awhile, now. Much more of this and your body's going to need full-time life support. Maybe that's what she wants, though. I mean, you'd be a hell of a lot easier to protect and control if you couldn't move."

"Yeah. Maybe."

The thought was a little unsettling, so he changed the subject. Because he missed her, because she mattered, and because he didn't know how to fix things anymore, John said,

"It's good to see you again, Drew. I didn't think you'd persist this long."

She shook her head, and dead-black hair swept his shoulders.

"There's no "long" about it, Tracy. All I am is an echo of Autumn Drew. I'm her shadow, animated by your memories. When you're here, I exist, just like Rick and Denice. The second you log out, we vanish. I'm happy to see you because she would have been, back when the two of you were together."

Otherwise, John guessed, his presence wouldn't have meant much. Certainly the real Drew wasn't trying very hard… (Okay, at _all)…_ to find him. Yeah. He had his own, patented way of screwing things up, John did. Each and every time. What-the-hell-ever.

For something to do besides feel sorry for himself, John summoned a real-time view of the island. At his off-hand thought, a screen opened in midair, displaying the altered and computer-overlaid outside world.

"Umm… wow."

It looked like a boiling-mad ant hill, with busy repair mechs, robot cranes and wire frame rock-trolls overrunning both versions. Everything seemed to be happening in fast-forward. Blink, and there was a mended sea wall. Shift position, and the hangars were free of crusted ash. Pretty clearly, the main generator was back online. Shadowbot would be next.

…And no wonder his head hurt. Five hadn't orchestrated all of this by herself.

"Dad still on the line?" he asked Drew (or her shadow).

"Uh-huh. It's only been a couple of seconds for him and your brother."

John got to his feet but kept the girl pressed against him, memorizing curves and warmth and wine-dark emotion. He kissed and held her, tempted to stay, but knowing better. Very reluctantly, the astronaut at last stepped away, saying,

"Okay. Let's put him on through. Time for some father-son bonding."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The luxurious Tracy Aerospace helijet, high over Los Angeles-_

Six rings. Six _entire_ rings, on the second damn call, before his son bothered to pick up. Not a good sign… and neither was the boy's evident disorientation.

_"Yeah… hey, dad. What's the… what can I do for you?"_

Jeff turned slightly, blocking the comm screen with his wide shoulders and broad chest. John didn't look well, and the scene behind him was cracked-industrial rather than office-neutral. Apparently, he was out in one of the tunnels. Had something gone wrong? Had someone… the Hood, possibly… taken advantage of John's isolation and the damaged base to launch an attack? Maybe the boy was already hostage?

Wracking his brain, Jeff tried to work up a secure test question; something that John would know how to respond to, if he needed help. Unlike Fermat, though, Jeff had no skill with RPGs and fantasy realms. What he knew was business and aerospace technology. Unless… what about something more personal? Something closer to home? Recalling a disastrous attempt to treat his young sons to a 'mom needs her sanity' night, Jeff said,

"I don't need anything special, son. Just checking in. But listen, your grandmother's going to want to put on a big feed once we're all back together, and I couldn't remember… what's your favorite ice cream?"

On the comm screen, John's pallid blond image frowned.

_"Don't have one,"_ he responded. _"I hate ice cream. The texture/ taste/ temperature dichotomies are too severe. Tell grandma I'd be happier with a piece of yellow cake and a few beers. She ought to know that, though."_

"Noted, son," Jeff said to him. Tired he might be, but if John had time to be fussy about desserts, things were going all right. "How are you holding up, over there?"

_"I'm good, sir. Generator's running, and all major computer systems should be back online within two to three hours. Physically, though, it's…um… still kind of a mess."_

No doubt it was, after a tidal wave and nearby volcanic eruption. For that matter, John was looking pretty rough, himself.

"Not a problem, son. Do what you can, but first I want you to find something safe to eat and then have a short nap. You need rest, if you're going to straighten up one island and buy me another."

On screen, John rubbed at his temples with both hands, shaking loose a bit of fine ash. He said,

_"Yeah. I'm on it, dad. Anything else?"_

"Just one more thing, while I've got your attention. What do you hear from your brothers? Alan, especially?"

The image seemed to flicker. Jeff thought it had frozen at first, but then John shifted position, saying,

_"Alan's okay. He wants another game session, is all. Claims it's vital. Scott's gone south for the winter, while Virgil's out researching prehistoric tribes with Gordon. So far, so good. That it?"_

No. Not really. Jeff sighed, straightened his rumpled tie and then gave John a brief nod. There were aspects of his second son which were essentially unreachable, and probably always would be. Terra permanently incognita.

"That about covers it. Just keep up the good work and keep me posted, John. Tracy, out."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, on beleaguered Vatupele-_

The giant green cargolifter had been down for 10.36 minutes, already, and still nothing was happening. On his infrared scanner, the hunched and frowning pilot saw milling dots, not purposefully moving ones. Meanwhile, the situation outside had gone from worse to deadly.

Rising from his co-pilot's seat, Gordon said something about,

"…Trudgin' aft t' visit th' head."

But Virgil only grunted. What was he going to do if the natives refused to cooperate? If they were too scared to approach Thunderbird 2? Should he go after them? And would they spear him for dinner, if he did?

With wind and ash raking his aircraft's hull, and water in great, foaming bulwarks erupting against the shoreline, Virgil couldn't afford to sit around wondering. Not when another ten minutes could bring complete inundation.

…And Gordon was taking an awfully long time in the bathroom. Virgil looked away from his view screen, then back again. Gripped by a sudden, terrible suspicion, he scanned for his brother's location. Not in the head. In fact, not in Thunderbird 2, at all. Instead, as a small, hesitant knot of bright dots began drifting toward the cargolifter, a lone, and secret other sped forth to meet them.

_Dumb-ass! _Virgil unstrapped so hurriedly that he almost ripped out his seatbelts. _Stupid, idiot, hot-headed kid!_

In an emergency, no one but John was calmer than Virgil and nobody was swifter to act. Placing the cockpit on standby and sounding a general alert, the muscular pilot raced to his weapons locker for some high-caliber insurance. Moving fast, he jerked a medkit off the bulkhead and all but tore himself a new exit leaving the hold.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They'd come within sight of the thunder-god-bird and then halted, afraid to draw nearer despite the end of all things which surrounded them. A monster of metal it was, like one that had fallen long before, and not a bird at all.

Some said yes and others no, but the chieftain held his counsel until something strode from the metal beast; something with an inhuman, goggling face and ridged black snout. At that point, shouting ancient war-cries, the men shook spears at the deadly grey sky and herded their women away. Not all were able to go, however.

Katu fell, wracked with bloody coughing even though he'd wound palm-fiber cloth about his face and head. The-one-promised-him would not leave, either, though her mother pleaded and tugged at her. Almost-Katu's-woman would not be stirred from her warrior's side. Not by wind or ash or another's tears. And why not remain, when the gods had turned away and the world was burning and heaving around them?

Flying palm branches struck one of Raku's children, smashing the little one to the ground. More women cried out, cursing that which no one could fight. It was then that the goggle-eyed demon came to them, clothed in color-of-the-sea.


	33. 33: Thin Air

Short and to the point, hopefully...

**33: Thin Air**

_Elsewhen, within the RPG-_

Full day found Sir Gawain and his companions high above the ground, on a cracked and bird-spattered ribbon of ivory. It was chilly up there, and the air was thin, but not excessively so. More distracting were the drifting cloud shadows which glided across the farmlands beneath them, and the spates of occasional mist. Experienced in person, clouds were not the fleecy white puffs one saw from the ground. Instead, they were dank, pallid and _cold._

The party's horses were quite nervous, even St. George. Sir Gawain had to place a calming spell on the beasts before they'd venture more than the height of a city wall. Nor could he blame them. With its crumbling substance and fading magic, the sky road seemed lonely and haunted; the sometime abode of wayfaring birds and lost winds, and no place at all for a sensible beast.

Frodle... perched atop the bags and parcels borne by his pony... had been consulting a scroll and his magical lenses. Now, raising concerned eyes from a page of glowing script, he called for the party's leader.

"Sir Gawain, a word, if I may?"

The knight lifted a hand to halt the others, and then edged his way past Male Elf, Glud and the pack horses to Frodle's side. He moved with care, but quickly. Ordinarily, such stops were a good thing, allowing one to unsaddle the horses and break open a food sack. This far above the ground, though, stopping didn't feel safe.

"Somethin's amiss?" Gawain said to the halfling, keeping his voice low. Up front, Male Elf had begun flinging coppers from the road, watching where, and how far, they fell. The scholar took note, but didn't comment. Signaling Gawain closer, he whispered,

"If not amiss, at least puzzling, Sir Knight. The sky road is shattered in several pieces some miles ahead. It is maintained by magic, and so does not drift or collapse, but I can't be sure how far apart the bits are until we reach the first break. It could be anything from a slight crack to vast gulf, though."

"I see." Gawain frowned down at a series of wrinkled-velvet hills and toy cottages. There was a town far below, which the sky road's thin shadow split into two halves. "Ever cross an ice-bound river with spring comin' on, Frodle?"

The halfling shook his curly dark head. Being a creature of books and study, he'd read more about water than he ever meant to directly test.

"No Gawain, I can't rightly say that I have. Why?"

The Cross-Knight smiled at him.

"Because sometimes, th' wretched ice breaks, leavin' one with a lot of unsteady bits t' hop, like th' steppin' stones of a muddy street. Not pleasant, but I've no wish t' turn back, so… if 'tis at all passable, I'd counsel pushin' on. After all, 'tis held so far."

Frodle chewed on the edge of one fingernail while he worked out something to say. Allat, who'd been curled asleep on a nearby packhorse, his shape a sort of indeterminate grey lump, now sat up and opened his eyes.

"Want me to scout ahead?" he asked eagerly, shifting back to a more sneaky and humanoid form. "I can get there and back with more details than librarian-boy's got in all his scrolls put together, promise!"

"Aye," Gawain decided. "Have a go, then, but mind y' don't frighten th' horses. Last thing we need is t' have the entire ruddy lot plunge t' th' rooftops below."

Allat grinned at Gawain, the spread of those white teeth actually surpassing the edges of his face.

"No problem, Captain Knight-shift. I'm off… but _quietly._ Not a word, not a sound, not a breeze or ripple to let anyone know that I ever slid past like the evening mist and the morning dew. Just little ol' me slipping along to find…"

He went on that way until well out of sight, drawing a deep sigh and head-shake from the bulky, red-haired knight.

_"Why_ do I keep him on, again?" Gawain demanded aloud, not really expecting an answer.

"Because you won his services for the next 300 years, wagering with a sorceress," Male Elf replied, having slouched over to join them. _"I_ advised taking the locked chest, but what do I know?"

His cloud-wet pale hair was flattened to head and face, his expression restless and irritable. Like Glud, the elf didn't much enjoy feeling trapped.

"Why have we stopped?" he asked, before the knight could defend his choice of winnings.

No sense concealing the truth, Gawain supposed, though he wasn't eager to face the elf's sarcasm.

"There may be somethin' of a slight barrier t' progress, ahead; extent as yet unknown."

Male Elf cocked a slim eyebrow.

"What _kind_ of barrier?"

"Bit of breakage, most like. Nothin' serious."

Gawain braced for a storm of barbed and razor-edged words, but Male Elf never unleashed them. Instead, he mused,

"I've been tossing things off the roadway for awhile now, Gawain, and it looks like the span's magic extends about fifteen feet to either side."

"Meanin'…?"

The elf shrugged.

"Meaning anything that steps or falls off will hang in midair beside the road unless pulled back… or until it drifts beyond fifteen feet. Then, it drops like a drunken troll, and someone down there has a mess to clean up. A short gap ought to be negotiable, though, with plenty of rope and spell-work."

They were still high in the air above that nameless small town, although the sky road's long shadow had drifted well past it.

"You're a rare creature, Master Elf," Gawain said to his startled friend, placing a hand upon the elf's shoulder. "Useful in th' most unexpected ways. I thank you for the information and f'r bein' curious enough t' throw coins."

"Well…" the elf floundered, his color rising just a bit. "I got them all back again. Spell of Retrieval isn't _that_ hard to…"

Male Elf stopped talking then, for the same reason that Gawain and Frodle stopped listening, the horses began screaming and Glud threw his head back to roar aloud. Honestly, how could you miss it? A tiny black dot was racing along the span, pursued from above by lances of hot flame and sinuous, darting-bright shapes. Allat the Shade was on his way back, trailing an entire swarm of furious dragons.

"Nothing serious, huh?" Male Elf inquired, calmly stringing his bow. All of a sudden, fifteen feet of clearance didn't seem like enough.


	34. 34: Inner Conflict

Second draft, continually improved upon. Thanks for all reviews.

**34: Inner Conflict**

_Thunderbird 3, hovering above the tortured Pacific Ocean-_

Brains almost missed the alert's significance. Though he'd been cautioned by John Tracy to keep an eye on his scanners and channel 121.5, the engineer had so far been too preoccupied with bad weather and weak signals to watch for new trouble. Nor did his young copilot spot the developing problem. Alan was busy plotting heartache and body casts for his players, and not of much use, but at least he stayed out of the way. More than that, the blond firebrand had grown tired, and even teenaged adrenaline had to run short, sometime. Consequently, with engines droning and instruments beeping in the background, Alan's stylus and PS Nano slipped from his loosened grip, and he fell asleep.

Not surprising, really. Thunderbird 3's cockpit was roomy and well-designed; her seats embarrassingly comfortable. She'd been intended to serve as a luxury space yacht, and it showed in every sleek line and first-class amenity. She was lightly shielded but very fast, and therein lay her basic defense.

When those seven blips appeared on her long-distance scanner, cutting across the sky in a hypersonic wedge, Hackenbacker was just gulping the last of his cold, gritty, coffee. Spotting the fast-moving red triangle, Brains paused, blinked, adjusted his fuzzy thinking and then flicked a virtual key to boost and identify the signals. The coffee seemed to congeal in his throat and mouth like caffeinated mud, for the blips turned out to be WorldGov fighter craft, following one of his relayed signal trails straight to Thunderbird 3. The fighters hurtled along in complete radio silence and, traveling in such a manner, were not likely rushing his way to provide escort and comfort.

Immediately, Hackenbacker jammed his coffee cup into its holder and then shouted at Alan to wake up and strap in. Hopefully, the boy would hear and respond, because Brains was too busy initiating evasive to check. He didn't waste time contacting that deadly-fast phalanx, either. All he did was to send an emergency code… 121.5, again… to Jeff and John. Then he withdrew 3's signaling array, tightened her shields and climbed like hell for space.

Seven… no, eight… heat-seeking missiles streaked across screen and sky toward him. Sentinel VIIs; voracious little engines of death. Hackenbacker increased the Bird's speed, risking black-out to avoid being blown from the sky like a clay pigeon. Beside him, Alan grunted and wheezed, squashed by Thunderbird 3's furious acceleration. Then the boy's eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness. But the engineer simply gritted his teeth, focused through his own ragged tunnel vision and kept going.

One by one, the missiles fell away, exploding in a soundless, sun-bright array while Thunderbird 3 blazed onward. Clear through the ionosphere and out into cold, greedy space she went, where jets couldn't reach her, and the real demons were radiation, air-loss and orbit decay. Out into safety… from a certain point of view.

His heart, the bio-med scanners informed him, was pounding as frantically as someone trapped in a haunted cellar. Alan was still unconscious, but breathing, with a slight, shiny ribbon of blood at the left corner of his mouth. It took Hackenbacker awhile to calm, longer still to send the all-clear: 2-6-5. By this time, John had arranged a new and apparently verified set of WorldGov "orders", commanding the frustrated war planes to return to base, while Jeff Tracy instructed 3 to achieve and maintain high orbit. Done, and gratefully.

His hands were shaking, Brains noted. Possibly, compared to the mighty Tracy family, he was somewhat lacking in the testicular fortitude department. Certainly Scott wouldn't have had this much trouble re-focusing… or John, for that matter.

Hackenbacker would have gone on kicking himself, but Alan woke up, vomited helplessly and gave him something else to think about.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_In the RPG, high above Midworld, assaulted by angry dragons-_

Everything happened at once, in fierce bits and hot, chaotic splashes. The terrified pack horses ripped free and then bolted back the way they'd come, just about shoving Gawain and Male Elf from the road. Glud unsheathed a six-foot broadsword, still roaring a challenge to battle. Male Elf got his bow strung and a black arrow nocked, though the hidden thing at his wrist burned and pulsed like an open wound. Frodle lifted his staff, chanting spells of protection from Dapple's broad back. Allat raced for the shelter of his friends, assuming a variety of shapes on the way. Some kind of thorny armadillo was the last form anyone had time to really notice, for the dragons were that soon upon them.

As the beasts boiled and shrieked from the sky, jetting mage fire and lashing their razor-edged tails, Sir Gawain of Espan fired one spell, reached for the hilt of his sword and then froze; pale and stiff as a corpse or a statue. No time to investigate, though. No time to do anything at all but hang on, choose a target and fight back.

The fastest reptile streaked low above them, its flame spattering like water against Frodle's protective dome. The tail got through, though, its barbs slashing at the fragile sky road. Glud leapt up and forward, whipping that massive sword around as though it had been a stalk of dry grass. His serrated blade met the tender gold membranes of the dragon's near wing, tearing flesh like wet paper. Hot, poisoned blood showered down, some of it splashing Allat, Glud and Frodle. Beside them, the elf was able to dodge the worst, while Gawain remained mysteriously unharmed and unmoving.

Male Elf selected the bar-pupiled eye of a second dragon, just as the first spiraled into their perch, where it skidded wildly and then claw-dragged itself to a screeching, fiery halt. The remaining horses panicked despite their calming spells. St. George and Grayling reared to paw the air. Terrified Dapple bucked and twisted, hurling Frodle from saddle to crumbling pavement.

Aiming well, Male Elf drew his bowstring back until bristling fletches brushed his left ear. Then, when the creature swooped near and that armored lid and inner membrane flashed wide, he whispered a potent, ugly spell word, and released. He'd catch hell from Gawain later, probably, but the word gave power and deadly accuracy to his missile. It shot true, sinking to the feathers in the dragon's large, glaring eye. A scream… spike-to-the-head loud… split the air. The reptile dropped like a thunderbolt, its shrill cries cracking the time-weakened sky road still further.

Male Elf made sure of his footing before nocking another arrow, as the road was breaking into separate, spell-bound islands beneath him, and he had to be careful. Frodle's spell had begun to fade, for the halfling struck his head when thrown from the horse, making it difficult to maintain his focus. Fortunately, Allat was there to help, rolling himself up around the confused scholar like a poisonous, steel-armored caterpillar. Buying, he hoped, a little time.

Glud pivoted to face the first dragon, creeping toward him across the cracked ivory span. It hunched along on the knuckles of its folded wings, moving as awkwardly as a giant, land-bound bat; injured, but terribly dangerous. The half-orc leapt from one section of bobbing road to another, rushing to meet his opponent like one whose music and dance were combat. In his hurry, he passed beyond the faltering limit of Frodle's spell.

Male Elf cursed and missed a shot, turning instead to direct a fire-proofing charm at his heedless friend. Just in time, too, for the lurching dragon opened its long jaws and fired a stream of blazing slime. The heat did not touch Glud, but the fried-metal smell and sheer, hammer-like concussion did, knocking the half-orc backward. He had to leap and flail to avoid tumbling through a crack in the road, below which rolling hills and a river of silvery water showed faint and shadowy-far.

The dragon's golden head darted about on its snaky-long neck, steaming and snapping. Glud met each sudden jab with a powerful swing, denting the monster's scales and smashing several teeth to cracked stubs. Meanwhile, a hail of toxic spines shot from Allat's second-best defensive shape. True, one of them struck St. George, but most nailed the supply packs and a few even hit Glud's viciously whipping opponent.

They could have used another warrior or a good, strong mage. Except Gawain was stiff as a brick, still, and Frodle quite stunned, forcing Male Elf to waste energy on defenses, rather than fighting. His third shot was delayed, merely scraping the eye of his target before being snapped in half by a guillotine lid. Damn the luck!

"Gawain!" he called, but the knight would not answer him, though the dragons pressed harder, yet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Anywhere is here; anytime, now-_

Trapped in an ink-dark crucible, he could see, but he could not act. His friends were in battle… they needed his help… but Gawain couldn't move. Nor was he actually among them, except in abandoned body.

That which animated and enlivened the Cross-Knight had been diverted elsewhere, leaving Gawain powerless to move. Not that his stolen consciousness was faring much better, out in this shapeless beyond.

His location made no physical sense; he could not determine direction or distance, and line-of-sight was bent round in a tight little circle. All he saw was a looped and shifting wall, containing a single, flame-edged window. Through it, the knight glimpsed his friends, torn at and seared by a flight of savage dragons.

Wild struggling yielded nothing but a change in the window's angle of view. He came no closer, found no means to signal or speak. Still, what choice did he have but to keep trying? And if he was just able to reach that square of normalcy, could he maybe pass through it? Return somehow to the fight?

_"Not,"_ came a sudden voice, cold and slow as grave mist, _"unless we choose to allow it."_

It was a thing not heard, but felt; clammy and fouling as midden-waste. Another voice, this one composed from death-screams and trumpets, added,

_"And we do NOT so choose."_

_That_ one was the noise of fighting past hope, when failure was certain and death assured. That was the ruin of cities, capture of loved ones, burning of flags. Sensing this, something inside him writhed and shrank tight, but evil on such a scale could not be escaped nor battled, only stalled.

_"Yet we choose to bargain,"_ spoke a third, in the wail of rejected infants and lost souls, _"because it improves the game."_

Strange words, set to the music of anguish, sorrow and abandonment, and beneath their assault, Gawain flinched. Bargain…? With _that?_ Better to be destroyed utterly, his name and deeds never spoken, than to deal at all with such terrible beings.

The first expressed amusement, dragging bone-fingers of chilly contempt through the knight's reeling mind.

_"Indeed. Bargain implies choice, which is offered because mere compulsion lacks savor. Our enjoyment is greatly increased when a piece devoted to good is taken and turned without direct force. One might even term it a win."_

Through the opening, Gawain could see four remaining dragons striking and swooping at his injured companions. Surely, they couldn't withstand much more.

_"These creatures are your 'friends', are they not?"_ said the voice of conquest and horror. _"Soon their fleshling existence will end. You will be detained here until their souls depart, and then released to dispose of the remains."_

In this place, Gawain had no teeth to grit, no fists to clench nor tears to shed, which somehow made his position more horrifying. Glud was down, his chest laid open by the slashing blow of a dragon's tail. The dark elf leapt to defend him, but was himself in a bad way, forced now to aim and shoot with his right hand, rather than the charred left. Of Allat and Frodle he could see nothing at all.

_"Gone,"_ mourned a last-breath, crying voice, _"Unless…"_

Unless he gave in, and at least _asked_ what the three who'd captured him wanted in return for the lives of Male Elf, Frodle, Allat and Glud. Furious, Gawain refused. More than that, he fought. But his brief attempt at a white spell was crushed at once, causing pain to flare like nothing he'd ever experienced. Not just his spirit was in torment and flame, but his very faith.

In the window, matters proceeded as they must, inching ever closer to the end. The elf had dropped to one knee; still defending the others with spells, but able no longer to battle. All at once, he seemed to slap at his burned-up left wrist. A flash of light obscured the scene, as though something of Gawain's magic had gotten through, after all.

Another dragon appeared, then, this one purple-coppery, smallish and fierce. Like a mockingbird diving at hawks, it harried the larger reptiles, beating them back. All was silence in the nowhere-and-nothing darkness of his prison, but Gawain thought he detected surprise. Not fear, though; from their sort, never fear.

The scene before him froze, just as one of the biggest dragons seized the screeching intruder in its talons. Just as a thunderbolt tail cut toward St. George and Grayling.

_"Hope,"_ mocked the voice of war and massed casualties, _"Is a highly useful emotion. It prolongs the game and provokes such amusing antics."_

_"There is no hope,"_ mourned another, more feminine being, _"only entropy. Only the grave's spreading-cold end."_

Sir Gawain shuddered, cut to the ephemeral quick by her bleak words. And he wondered, afraid for his friends and the world of men, itself, just what it was that they wanted of him. This time, their voices spoke in unison.

_"A small act, only," _they assured him. _"Quickly rendered, harming no one you know. Only promise the deed, and you will be returned in time to save your creatures. After all, what is the throne of Faerie, against their lives?"_

Gawain clenched like a weak and impotent fist. Agree, and trade the unknown to save others? Or refuse, and watch them all die?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Vatupele, amid ash and wind and rising waters-_

The people were afraid, for they'd somehow angered their gods. Was not this demon-of-the-air proof? They fell upon the creature before their chieftain could act to prevent them, beating it with spear shafts and war-clubs as if, through its twitching, collapsed form, they might strike at the ground and sea. It fought back, but not strongly enough to harm the warriors, and this weakness was its undoing. Once it had fallen, the people crowded close, expecting to find a monster. Beneath the blood and demonic trappings, though, all they discovered was a crumpled Pakehan, much like the ones they'd offered before.

It was then, examining the fire-haired stranger, that their chieftain found words. He spoke to be heard above wind and water, but even had Palu'au whispered, his folk would have listened.

"Hear me," he said, gazing around himself at the pricked and tattooed faces of the people. "This is not anger, my children, but a test. Unseen-Sky-Man, Skull-with-Eyes and Night-Woman wish to determine the worth of their followers. They doubt our courage, we who have grown soft; we who have twice allowed the weak and unfit to survive."

Some of his warriors scowled and shook spears, making their faces ferocious, but the women keened gently, acknowledging themselves at fault for once sheltering an old one, and before that a pale and sickly-small babe. The few children stood with their elders, or else hid their faces against the women's tattooed legs. Well enough. All were listening. Nodding to himself, wrinkled Palu'au continued speaking:

"Let us take this stranger to the high place and throw him into the jaws of the sea. Then we will stand and await the will of Unseen-Sky-Man, who will surely reward his people's courage. These are my words and this, my counsel, people of Vatupele. What is your answer?"

Given hope, the folk shouted aloud. Their voices lifted in war cries and proud ancestries, in appeals to Unseen-Sky-Man, Skull-with-Eyes and Night-Woman (that stealer of sleeping children). Then, they took hold of the senseless stranger, lifted him high, and began racing for the edge of their threatened world.

…But Virgil Tracy was close behind them, and Shadowbot newly repaired.


	35. 35: Outward Consequence

Thanks for your reviews, ED and Panoply. Edited.

**35: Outward Consequence**

_The RPG, in desperate straits-_

As a Nymph had once promised Sir Gawain, there were those who would watch for them, and render what aid they could. This time, it was spirits of air and water who intervened. A cold wind shot from the north, sodden with chilly moisture. Clouds built up, their high, tumbling walls stretching like purple-grey cliffs from Earth to far Heaven, shot here and there with lightning and reflected sun. Streamers of pale mist poured from the cloudy scarp like waterfalls, birthing twin sleet and hail.

All at once, the sky was a most unfriendly environ for flying reptiles, which now faced knife-like downdrafts and bitter cold. Exploitable distractions, which their intended victims took full advantage of.

Locked in the curving talons of a much larger dragon, the coppery wyvern twisted and writhed, managing to sink her needle-like teeth in the other's neck. One savage bite crushed the beast's windpipe, trapping flame and blocking the passage of air. The big reptile's neck and tail arched suddenly upwards, tearing loose a big chunk of pierced flesh. Its wings flailed like a netted bird's, but it would not release the purple-and-copper wyvern. Instead, they cart-wheeled from the sky together, the end of their fall marked by a distant _whump_ and bright flash. One down, another injured, and too many more remaining.

Cold rain had come, with whispering, frost-edged wind. Together, these revived Frodle, who stumbled away from Allat to lift his staff and renew their protective charms. Kneeling beside Glud, Male Elf was sorely worn with wounds and spell-casting, but he did not collapse when he heard the halfling's reedy voice. Gathering himself, the dark elf formed and sharpened a black bolt, gave it furious, seething power, and then released the cursed thing. It arced through the air like the hellish opposite of lightning, to envelope and crush a wind-battered dragon. The fiery monster crumpled before them like a doused ember, all at once blackened and spent. This one, too, dropped from the sky; a mass of shattered bone and peeling flesh. Now there was one left in the air, still fighting madly to reach them, and another creeping closer along the span.

Trusting that Male Elf could deal with the situation, Frodle ignored both threats. He lowered his staff, instead, and rushed to examine the rain-soaked knight. To the halfling's learned eye, Sir Gawain was clearly ensorcelled, his spirit wandering far from its spell-frozen home. A serious problem, but relatively easy to fix (if you knew what to do and possessed the right tools).

Reaching forth, Frodle spoke a certain word and then tapped at Gawain's left hand, which was still locked about the hilt of his sword. The hand released its grip, allowing Frodle to draw the weapon from its scuffed leather sheathe. Holding the sword before Gawain so that the Holy symbol in its hilt blazed directly before the knight's fixed, empty eyes, Frodle called his name aloud three times.

"Gawain… Sir Gawain… Gawain, son of Lot… in the name of thy deity, paladin... I bid thee _return!_"

Which he did, with a sudden, coughing gasp and wild look. Just in time the summons had come, though the others couldn't know this, and Gawain wouldn't tell. Just in time...

Nodding his thanks to the halfling, the Cross-Knight took back his sword. With no use for great show or senseless heroism, Sir Gawain fell back upon basics, raising his head to shout,

"Wind of Power!"

The words were a spell, one which marshaled all of those dancing and braiding air sprites into a sudden mighty cyclone. Dropping from the sky like a blade, the screaming funnel cloud lengthened and struck. All around the huddled party of men and horses it roared, smashing dragons off the sky road and out of the air. Surrounded by shrilling wind and slashing hail, the companions were nearly blown to oblivion, themselves. But again, the Nymph's blessing prevailed, blocking the worst and saving them alive. Got rather pelted, though, by fallen scales and bits of pavement, alike; shielding their faces and gripping like mad for the road, all they could do was hang on.

"Next time," Frodle said to Gawain, once that monster of whipping air had finally drawn itself up and away, "maybe something a little less… _gusty?"_

For the tornado was a mixed blessing. They'd close to no provisions at all, now, having won through battle and weather with little more than their lives. And for some of them, even _that_ much was in question. A bit dazed, the knight simply nodded. Then he gave himself a brisk shake and stalked over to Glud, hopping over several large cracks in the wet road as he went. The greenish sky looked threatening, still, and land very far off, but Gawain had more important things to worry about.

Their half-orc mercenary lay clutching at his wound with both hands, staring at nothing and breathing in slow, faltering gasps. Male Elf had been attending his friend, though he had little power to heal others. _Especially_ now, as he'd used a number of very dark spells in the course of their battle.

Not looking at Gawain, the elf backed hurriedly away from Glud. Whatever his reasons for unleashing them, those cursed magicks rendered him dangerously unclean. Just as carefully, Sir Gawain avoided contact with Male Elf, who had sense enough to withdraw.

With an effort of main will, Gawain blocked the elf from his view and his thoughts. Dropping to one knee beside the half-orc, he extended both hands and laid them upon the suffering creature's torn chest. Within him, power coiled, collected and flowed, and Gawain said simply,

"Be healed."

Times like these, he was a conduit, nothing more. Just as it had for the Nymph's broken daughter, strength poured out through his hands and into the ravaged flesh beneath. Very quickly, Glud mended; bone knitting and flesh weaving itself shut as a proper housewife might darn up a sock. Without seams, though; Gawain very seldom left scars.

When the job was done, and Glud poking at his own healed chest in confused wonderment, Sir Gawain stood up to see to Frodle's head wound. Then there were toxic barbs to draw from St. George's twitching flank, while Allat nervously apologized. Gawain accepted the shape-shifter's explanation with a stone face and slight nod. Trying very hard, the knight was, _not_ to launch retribution at the darksome thing that he sensed like a blot behind them. A thing of shadow that was also still his friend.

Lifting a hand, Gawain halted Allat's dragon-excuses and Frodle's well-meant advice. They silenced at once, perhaps cautioned by the strained look in their leader's hazel eyes.

"Tell him t' keep from my sight," the knight told them. "Instruct him t' find a spring and wash clean three times, just as soon as he's able. And say… tell him I said…"

"Well done, and thank you?" Frodle suggested, peering up at the shaken Cross-Knight.

Sir Gawain's jaw was clenched tight, but he nodded. The elf needed healing; he knew that, just as the knight knew that he durst not approach him. Not yet. Not tainted as he was by the fearsome things he'd invoked. Still, there were potions, weren't there?

"Give him this," muttered Gawain, fishing forth a bottle of the potent brew he'd tucked in his belt for dire emergencies. High white magic it was (and so possibly ineffective) but anyhow, worth a try.

Frodle accepted the potion flask, clasping Sir Gawain's hand briefly as he did so.

"Maybe you and St. George should scout on ahead, Gawain. Take Allat with you, and seek for a safe route to the ground. Glud and I will post the rear-guard."

…and see to Male Elf, who was in silent pain, some distance away.

"Right, then," Gawain responded miserably, wanting to help, but scarcely able to bear thinking about that stained and accursed…

"You'd best be off, Gawain," Frodle gently reminded him. "Night will fall soon, and I'd rather not_."_

It was meant as a joke, but Gawain didn't laugh. Deeply and terribly torn, the Cross-Knight merely obeyed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Vatupele-_

He came around rather suddenly, to find himself jolting along in midair, coughing up ashes while clutched at by dozens of hands. A shrill squealing sound had prodded him awake, vibrating from Gordon's right arm to alarm the natives and announce that his wrist comm had resumed function. God bless John, eh?

Taking good advantage of the moment, Gordon cursed and struggled in earnest, no longer much concerned with salvaging primitive islanders. Instead, he kicked and he twisted, lashing wildly at everyone and everything within reach. If there was one thing Gordon excelled at, it was fighting, and the natives soon dropped him to the ground like they'd somehow landed a tiger shark. Falling hurt, but on his way to a thudding collision with sharp rock and crusted ash, Gordon had the deep satisfaction of breaking someone's nose and loosening several mouths' worth of sharply-filed teeth. Beat him, would they?

He next caught hold of a club and tore it loose of its owner's grasp, swinging all about himself like a crazed batsman. This netted a quantity of meaty thuds and quivering impacts, and it was well for the natives that Virgil showed up, firing into the air and shouting bold threats.

Elsewhere, though, Scott Tracy was having a much better time.


	36. 36: Patience, and Shuffle the Cards

Thanks for your reviews, ED, Panoply and Tikatu. Edited.

**36: Patience, and Shuffle the Cards**

_Antarctica, during the months-long winter night-_

Ever punctual, his watch announced 5AM with a flurry of shrill, rapid beeps. Scott Tracy came to his senses in a small, dim cubicle, listening to the homey sounds of heating equipment and creaking walls. There was a window… more of a double-paned porthole, really… through which he glimpsed swirling, flood-lit snow and shards of dark sky. Sitting up in his bunk, Scott next spied an outdoor fire-escape hatch flanked by posters of 'Exotic Hawaii'. To each his own paradise, the pilot supposed, although tropical islands no longer held much personal allure.

Feeling along the inside wall, Scott found and flipped on his bunk light, further illuminating the small room. Not much else to see, really, besides a packed bookshelf, cheap grey carpeting and an inside doorway. Unlocked, he assumed.

About the night before, he honestly couldn't remember much. He'd helped to fuel Thunderbird 1, eaten many helpings of something that tasted like Heaven… beef stew and canned peaches, it was… and then been shown to his berth by Wilfred Darson, who probably would have talked more had Scott been in any shape to listen.

The rest was as blank as a row of asterisks, but it sure had improved his outlook. Funny thing, sleep; you never appreciated the importance of downtime until you found yourself constantly, unwillingly 'up'. Then a cubicle at the bottom of the world became more valuable that the Plaza Hotel's Presidential Suite, room service included.

Feeling rested and grateful, Scott yawned and stretched. Then he pushed the covers off to reveal black sweat-pants and a bright blue South Pole tee shirt. Beside his bunk was another surprise: a guest bag filled with toiletries, brochures and a couple of South Pole souvenirs, including 'winter-over' key chains and a stuffed penguin.

…All of which seemed funny and disorienting. The last time he'd been here, Amundsen-Scott Station was being cracked apart by shifting ice. Things had been far below white-glove inspection standard; an utter, deadly mess. He, John, Virgil and Brains had been sent to pluck a team of stranded scientists from the wreckage and prevent the station's reactor from exploding. They'd succeeded, more or less, but there hadn't been much left behind, and definitely no gift bags. All of this… the room, the station and airstrips… was new to him. So was that seething, pitch blackness, although the clawing winds hadn't changed a bit.

Stifling another yawn, Scott crawled out of his bunk. He wanted to wash up and visit the head, but paused long enough to make his bed, first, then changed back into uniform. He kind of hurried on this last part because (even with the heater running full blast) the room was chilly, especially near the floor. All at once, Scott's opinion of tropical islands up-ticked considerably. If nothing else, they were plenty warm.

When the cubicle was as up-tight and squared-away as an academy dorm room, Scott seized his gift bag and quietly nudged open the hall door. Cautiously, because many of the South Pole's scientific crew were operatives, but some weren't, and he couldn't afford to be seen by anyone who'd turn around and report what they'd witnessed. At this stage of the game, IR had very few friends.

…But two of them were right outside. Fred Darson greeted Scott as soon as he emerged, smiling and bushy-bearded as ever. A little greyer, maybe, but the handshake and backslap were still outdoorsman-firm. Dressed in a dark sweater and faded jeans, Darson looked less like a glaciologist than an aging ski-bum. Beside him, swarthy, curly-haired Ahmet smiled with genuine warmth, the force of his welcoming embrace almost crushing Scott.

"Good to see you up," Darson told him, just as another old friend came loping around a bend in the hallway. "We've been taking turns at guard duty and double monitoring the escape hatch, just in case."

"Thanks, Mr. Darson," Scott said to him, judging from all the folding chairs, magazines and coffee cups that he'd been warded for hours. "I really needed the sleep."

He'd have said more, asked about Darson's errands, but the new arrival interrupted him; Leanna Pace, with a fragrant, grease-stained paper bag and a huge, lidded coffee. She pushed the others aside to hug him, making Scott acutely conscious of his unshaven, morning-rumpled state.

"Welcome back, hero!"

Leanna was a NASA-trained astronomer and satellite programmer. Her shoulder-length hair was mostly grey, now, but the figure skimmed by that New England Patriots jersey was girlishly trim, making for an interesting hug.

"And how's Knight-in-shining-armor-II?" (Meaning John.)

"He's doing well," Scott replied, returning her embrace and then accepting the food and hot coffee. "I'll tell him you said hello, but the hug you'll have to deliver, yourself. Wouldn't mean as much coming from me, anyway."

Leanna laughed and punched his arm, then let Fred take over again. They sat down on the folding chairs while Darson talked and Scott explored his food bag. Fried egg-and-bacon breakfast sandwich… cinnamon roll… cheesy hash browns… fruit cup…

"It's actually a good thing that you showed up when you did," Fred was saying. "We've got a box of… really _unique_ meteorite samples that Ahmet, here, turned up a few months ago, when he was out plowing a strip for the C-150. Strange stuff... and I'd feel more comfortable if the folks back at JPL could have a look at it."

"Dangerous?" Scott inquired, around a big mouthful of sandwich.

"No… I don't believe so. Just extremely high-energy. I'm not accustomed to that kind of power emanating from something that isn't red-hot, or poisonous. The pieces just glow and pulse, synchronizing when brought together…"

"…And lighting up every damn appliance for a hundred feet," Leanna interrupted him, shaking her blondish-grey head.

"Indeed," Ahmet cut in, "The outdoor lines had frozen while my tractor was low in fuel. It should have ceased function halfway to the station, but power was supplied, even when the gauge read 'empty'."

"Valuable stuff, as you can imagine," Darson finished up. "But I can't figure out how it produces that level of energy. Maybe NASA can pry loose a few secrets. Leanna seems to think so, at any rate."

"So, that's the errand?" Scott asked him. "Ferry meteors to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory?"

"Partly. On top of all that, my daughter, Sarah, is expecting. The pregnancy is progressing faster than planned, because she's having twins."

Both Fred and Ahmet smiled proudly at this, though Leanna merely winced. Twins were a handful, apparently.

"I'd like to request that you bring her husband along when you leave the station, please. Sarah's feeling a little overwhelmed just now, and having Ahmet there to help out would probably calm her down. That and… well, it would certainly relieve the grandpa-to-be's concerns."

Scott gulped the last of his coffee. Running a hand through his own mussed black hair, he said,

"You're on, sir. Get the samples ready and have the proud father pack his bags. Wheels up at 0630, sharp. No ifs, ands or buts."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_A Tracy Aerospace helijet, around sunset, San Francisco, California-_

The Jenkinses were dropped off at a private helipad, with a handshake, a business card and a job offer (for young Albert, whose idle yacht designs had caught Jeff's eye). The notion of work seemed to interest Albert Murchison Jenkins IV, though he didn't need the money and had more potential amusements than one man could hope to explore in several lifetimes. Politics was one thing, but a _job…?_ Like the 'other half'?

"Bertie, _do_ mull it over," Carolyn urged her husband, as they stepped from the aircraft with Jeff Tracy. "Imagine how fascinated everyone will be when you recount your tales of power lunches and water-cooler intrigue! Stitch and I would visit your office every day, of course."

The Pomeranian barked and wagged his black tail, evidently as eager to explore the corporate jungle as his smiling young mistress. And Albert, despite numerous stern talks with himself in the mirror, could refuse Carolyn nothing.

"Well, Jeff," he laughed, offering Tracy his hand, "it seems that you've hired yourself a Jenkins."

"Welcome aboard," Jeff replied warmly, shaking the younger man's hand. "Come to the Manhattan office next… make it Friday… at 10:00 AM, and we'll finalize the details, Albert. In the meantime, my people here in California will see to your comfort until you can make arrangements to return to Massachusetts."

His San Francisco branch manager and secretary were already crossing the helipad, best welcoming smiles fixed and ready. But Carolyn leaned back into the aircraft to wave before taking her leave.

"Good bye and thank you, Mrs. Tracy… TinTin and Elspeth, too! We won't forget you!"

She was quite a pretty thing, Carolyn Cabot-Jenkins; blonde, wealthy and entirely at ease. TinTin felt meager and shy by comparison, though Fermat was more interested in his PDA than any departing fellow passengers. The 'game' kept him well occupied.

As for Jeff, the evening's _good_ news was just about over with. Once returned to his helijet, the former astronaut had to resume thinking about his scattered sons, his illegal rescue operation and the devastated island he'd left behind. Worse than that, he had to deal with WorldGov.

The attempted debriefing interview had been bad enough (and surely reportable), but an _attack?_ Honest-to-God missiles, fired at Thunderbird 3, with intent to destroy? Intolerable.

Something similar had happened to Thunderbird 2, when she'd been sent to find and recover a downed American submarine. It had been WorldGov that time, too, and he hadn't liked it any better.

Settling back against cushions of butter-soft leather, Jeff Tracy buckled up and considered his options. Around him the engines howled to full power, lifting the helijet off the pad and into the cooling air. Her pilot murmured of distance and ETA, but Jeff fell to thinking and barely caught a word of it.

Had International Rescue made some new and powerful enemy? Was President Moreira, himself, out to crush them? Certainly the world government appeared thoroughly hostile, and the United States just about helpless to stop them. Only the fact that Thunderbird 3 was fast and space-worthy had saved Alan and Brains. That and John's skill with faked commands.

Coming to a decision, Jeff tuned the cabin's comm unit to Penelope, and gave Her Absent Ladyship a ring.

_"Jeff, darling!"_

Penny's scantily-clad image smiled brilliantly from some beach in the tropics; Brazil, he guessed, from the tall, sugar-loaf peak and statue of Christ in the background.

_"How perfectly splendid to hear from you, again!"_

She seemed to be wearing little more than a spangled cloth sarong draped about her gracefully rounded hips, with above that a quantity of shell necklaces and artfully arranged golden hair covering other, tenderer curves. Yes… _well._

"Always a pleasure speaking to you, too, Penny. I'm wondering if you might do me a favor, once you've wrapped up your current assignment."

_"Anything, Jeffery, of course. You have only to ask."_

(If only it was that simple!) Unaware of the effect that Penelope's appearance was having on the other passengers, Jeff straightened his shoulders and broadened his smile.

"Thank you. As soon as possible, then, I'd like you to undertake a little research. Here's what I need…"

While Jeff spoke with Lady Penelope, his former wife grew very still and wide-eyed. Almost, Gennine looked like she'd gotten her death sentence. Grandma reacted differently, though. She shook her head, grumping,

"Lord, have mercy! If your father was just here, what he wouldn't say about that two-faced little baggage havin' half the men in this family twisted 'round her damn pinky finger! I reckon he'd set things straight, faster 'n Miss 24-karat bloodlines could say 'plastic surgery'!"

Victoria received a shock of her own, then, for the normally quiet Elspeth Morgan, Penelope's maid, spoke up. Fierce and protective as a lion, she said,

"Beggin' yer pardon, mum, but to the best o' _my_ knowledge, Lady Penelope hasn't _ever_ had 'improvements'. Not beyond the odd bit o' blush, and _that_ just fer modeling and fetes and such. She's lovely as the good lord in his wisdom chose to make her. Naturally, she stirs hearts… and jealousy."

Grandma examined the plump, outraged servant. Then she grunted and turned away, muttering,

"She don't deserve you, but I'll say no more. Ain't no use arguin' politics, religion or love."

…Because it wouldn't have done any good. Elspeth was as blind to the noblewoman's flaws as John Matthew and Jeffery, himself, but there was only so much an old woman could do.

Jeff had by this time concluded the conversation, utterly unaware of the swirling emotions around him. On a roll and starting to feel better, he next contacted John, whose news was mixed, to say the least. His blond son appeared weary, still, but a little more focused. The background had changed, too, this time depicting a fictitiously gentle seascape.

_"Yeah. Thanks for calling, dad. I've got a couple of things to touch base on: First, Shadowbot and the wrist comms are online again. Second, you were outbid for Ile St. Martin. It belongs to somebody else, now, and he's not selling at any price. Third, there's a situation developing with 'Sir Gawain' and the locals. I'm on it, though, and you can expect an update within the hour."_

John paused at that point, apparently expecting a response, but it was all Jeff could do to manage a nod. _Damn it!_ Why in the hell had he entrusted the St. Martin negotiations to John?

"I see," he said, at last. "Well… the reality show crew is no longer much of a problem, anyway."

He should have added something else, like, '_thanks for trying, son',_ but sheer frustration stopped the words in Jeff Tracy's throat.

_"Yeah,"_ John replied, just as though he hadn't just failed to close a very important transaction. _"That's being dealt with. I'll talk to you again at 1930, local time, sir."_

"Right," Jeff snapped at a suddenly dark screen, swallowing a whole pharmacy's worth of bitter pills.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Vatupele, in the midst of a 'situation'-_

The terrified natives had scattered at Virgil's noisy, gun-firing approach. Not all of them got away, however. Gordon succeeded in capturing the old chieftain, who wasn't swift enough to dodge, nor fierce enough to fight him off.

He got the old man in a headlock, despite all of his twisting and cursing, earning at least half a dozen savage bites from those sharply-filed teeth.

"Damn it! Keep still before I pound you bloody senseless!"

He meant it, too, and would have derived a shameful amount of satisfaction from doing so. Virgil had a better notion, though. Using his reactivated wrist comm, the big pilot contacted John, who did his level best to communicate with the angry chieftain. On a hunch, he had Virgil set the wrist comm for holographic display, which caused the astronaut's glowing image to rise before them like a ghost… or a black-clad god. An inch or so off the heaving ground he hovered, untroubled by ash or wind.

At first, the old fellow maintained his silent, furious struggle. After awhile, though, he calmed enough to listen and then to respond, answering John's questions with grudging respect. Finally, he shrugged out of Gordon's hold (once John convinced the much-bitten swimmer to let go). Then the old man summoned his people with a shrill, warbling cry; wild as a cat's.

A few at a time they came, emerging from the dark palm jungle in tense, frightened knots, gripping weapons, household goods and infants. Glancing at John's hologram, Gordon asked,

"What did you say to him? Bloody effective, whatever it was."

The image shrugged.

_"Nothing special. Just pointed out that nine times out of ten, gods prefer live worshippers to dead heroes, and that corpses have a really hard time making a point. Also, from a power angle, if he's seen to control interaction with the, um, 'thunder-god-bird', he'll have won some major respect. Beats presiding over Ragnarok, any day."_

Compelling arguments all. They certainly swayed Palu'au, who ordered his gathered flock to heed the great bird and its messengers.

"I have striven with them, my children," the chieftain reported, "and by showing courage, have won for us passage to the heavens!"

His announcement might have rung truer had he not tried to throw a companionable arm around Gordon. Blunted his message somewhat, being shoved aside like that.

At any rate, the entire cavalcade fell into step with Virgil, Gordon and Palu'au, back the way they'd come. Virgil found and rescued Katu, lifting the fallen warrior in a fireman's carry and still managing to stride along as though he'd been toting nothing heavier than a sack of chicken-feed. This act plunged the natives into total confusion, for the weak and wounded were nearly always abandoned, even by those they'd loved. Katu's woman-to-be had all but placed herself beside him in the grave pit by not leaving the stricken warrior. Nor was this their last paradigm shift, that day.

Once of the younger women (a barely-tattooed girl of perhaps fourteen) was being trailed by a small boy. He was marked with lucky symbols and had a shark's tooth on a cord about his neck, but still the little fellow couldn't keep pace, though his mother stopped often to adjust her head-strap and load. A young warrior fell back, as well, clutching hard at hope and his good spear. Makor was his name, and he shot many glances from the chieftain to his woman and laboring child, praying that Palu'au would not notice them. The boy was already weaned, and thus too old to carry.

Makor's first-to-live, the boy was normally filled with laughter and mischief. Proud of his son, the warrior had stolen often by night to the women's hut to hold him and to be near his chosen one, beautiful Aki. Now though, as he struggled over palm logs and coughed up dark phlegm, the boy was too desperate for mischief and games, and his young mother close to tears. If he couldn't keep up, the boy must be left behind for Night-Woman, as that was the people's way.

Makor thought of slowing his own pace, and of extending the shaft of his spear, as though carelessly, for the little one to take hold of, but too late; overcome by ash and exhaustion, his son fell to the rumbling ground. The woman halted at once. In a trembling, cajoling voice, she called to the boy.

"Come little star, come funny bird, we are almost there! Once more up, my brave one! Look, there is your father. Shall a good son bring grief and disappointment to his ancestors? Come, my little, my love… up now, for I go no further without you."

Other women had convened by then, some calling as well, others keening prayers to assuage Night-Woman's hunger. Neither course had any effect at all, until one of the demons-turned-messengers… the one they'd captured… strode over, seized the shaking child, and thrust him into his mother's eagerly reaching arms. He said something, too, although no-one could make sense of the garbled phrases. What they _did_ understand was that the new gods wanted life, rather than strength. That somehow, even little and weak ones mattered.


	37. 37: Interstitial

Just a little bit, now freshly edited.

**37: Interstitial**

_Tracy Island, in the mansion's lower storey-_

Being hungry (and satisfied with the outcome of recent events) John sent a maintenance drone into the kitchen with orders to forage his supper. Yes, he could have gone there, himself. No, he didn't want to. After nearly three days without power, the refrigerator and freezers had likely become a set of gaseous, bulging food-coffins. And, while John could dig a latrine, clean a fish or muck out a stall without complaint, rotten food made his skin prickle. Consequently, he sent drones in to clear up the mess, another to scrounge something edible, and stayed well away in the meantime.

The dispatched maintenance drone eventually returned with two boxes of saltine crackers, canned ham and an unopened jar of grape jelly. These and a bottle of spring water made up his supper, which John consumed sitting on the fourth step of the big marble staircase, surrounded by companionable drones and repair mechs. In a general way, he was happy because:

A) The St. Martin purchase had gone well, and according to his quick, secret mineral assays, there was an awful lot of volcanic gold settling out of the water, thereabouts.

B) Progress was being made at home in the repair-and-reprogram department.

And…

C) All seemed right with his family, who would soon have hangars and a base to return to.

From John Tracy's perspective, there was no higher good than a job well done, and here he sat with three. Certainly, it was hot, the air stank, and his food tasted slightly of sulfurous ash… but a wind was breaking up the clouds and Omega Petrochemical had already called to ask about skimming the surrounding waters of all that reducible organic waste. Knock two birds from the sky with one shot, John figured, if he had the drones dump spoiled kitchen contents into the harbor for pickup and conversion. What the hell, huh? Dead fish and rotten eggs to unleaded fuel, in three simple steps. Everybody wins.

On the other hand… Jason Vann seemed likely to make trouble, soon, for International Rescue and his former cast, alike. John had kept several media windows open around him; one displaying his business interests, another the news and weather, a third Alan's RPG, and the last, WNN's entertainment network. Emergency channels ran as an overhead, streaming banner; bright green against cracked walls and ash-clouded twilight. His programming window remained active, as well, hovering before him at eye-level.

It was the entertainment channel that held most of John's attention while he ate, though. Cindy Taylor had come on-screen a number of times, appearing in brief teasers for her interview with an outraged and seething Vann. Nice. Even cleaned up and bandaged, he seemed to be a class-A bastard. Well… the astronaut decided, swallowing the last of his gritty meal… Vann's chief problem lay in the fact that he hadn't run into the _right_ bigger fish. But that situation could change in a quick, damn hurry.

John nodded to himself. In the glow of all those open applications, he resealed the grape jelly and then fed his emptied can and flattened boxes into a nearby repair mech; all the while thinking, thoughts printing themselves out around him as lines of flaring code.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Within the RPG, after an almost disastrous battle-_

Once Gawain was safely out of range, Frodle and Glud reversed their course to seek Male Elf, who'd withdrawn some way from the rest of the party. They found him crouched against a buckled section of sky road, nearly insensible. He'd been injured defending them against a flight of attacking dragons. Bad enough news, made worse by his use of dark magicks to help win the day, for Sir Gawain could not abide such, and had to avoid him. That stung, almost more than his burnt arm and slashed face.

For the most part, he didn't think about it, settling into a clear, cold well inside himself from which he could hear Frodle's spell and quiet commands, but felt very little. Other creatures were nothing but risk, his erstwhile folk would have said, and a wise person looked to himself… except that Male Elf no longer really believed that, and maybe never had.

At any rate, something within him responded to Frodle's healing words, just as it did the molten touch of that wretched white-magic potion. Either would have killed a normal Drow, but Male Elf improved enough to regain full consciousness and look around himself.

The still-busy halfling traced a sign of blessing on his forehead with the fingers of one hand (which was fairly annoying) while Glud offered him a drink (which was not). Male Elf accepted both with a mumbled "thanks", but he didn't yet trust himself to stand. Thus, the prolonged and dignified interest in his surroundings.

The sky road resembled an island chain or a trail of scattered crumbs, somehow not falling nor drifting on the wind. Dragons and weather had come close to finishing what time had begun, nearly demolishing the ancient highway. But Male Elf had other concerns. Taking a deep swig of Glud's fiery ale, he asked,

"What the hell happened to Gawain? Why did he freeze up that way? Magery? Second thoughts? Word from on high?"

The halfling shrugged morosely.

"I'm not sure, Friend Elf, beyond the obvious fact that he was ensorcelled by someone powerful enough to bind up the will of a paladin. I intend asking him about it… once we've made camp on solid ground."

A cloud drifted past as he spoke, silvering them all with droplets of clinging dew. Pretty enough, but chill as a grave mist, deadening sound and light, alike. Through it, the disjointed bits of sky road loomed like wet stones in an icy puddle. The snake tattoo had gone from his wrist, Male Elf noticed abruptly, as Frodle went on,

"But he says you're to keep out of sight until you've had a chance to wash clean three times. I recommend a spring, although the ocean will do at a pinch, if fed from above."

"Hmm…? Oh. Water, three times. Understood."

Why the odd sinking feeling, Male Elf wondered? That sudden, gut-punch sense of abandonment? Surely the magical item… a small dragon, itself… had been more trouble than use, skulking through his flesh like an inherited curse. Right?

_Sure thing, outcast_._ Whichever delusion keeps you breathing…_

Because sitting there felt helpless, Male Elf surged to his feet, accepting Glud's steadying hand when the too-swift motion and dizzying view turned him light-headed. Far below them the shadows were lengthening, purple as bruises on the landscape's soft curves. Fires were being lit, speaking of dinners and warm, woman-filled beds.

"We ought to hurry," he said to the scholar and half-orc. "Night's coming on, and I don't want to be stuck crossing this damn spider web in the dark."

Besides that, he needed running water and some kind of plan for finding a small, coppery dragon-thing. With scarce light remaining, they fetched the horses and started after Gawain and Allat, Male Elf pausing now and again in the deepening gloom to pocket dragon scales and the odd, unbroken tooth. After all, you never knew _what_ you could trade, or with whom.


	38. 38: Interlude

Thanks, Panoply and Cathrl, for your reviews.

**38: Interlude**

_Down below, in a brief, fleeting somewhen-_

Three mighty beings contemplated a twist in their game, at a place between Nowhere and Gone. Illumination came from without, from battlefield watch-fires, nuclear decay and the cold gleam of drowned treasure. Entertainment came from the struggle of mortal beings, always enticing to watch and manipulate.

All three were intrigued by the squirming escape of a captured enemy 'piece', which had lengthened what should have been a short and decisive match. Said the icy Hooded One, as he gazed through a portal at the laboring mortals beyond,

_"Most unexpected. Most… tantalizing. The slip and catch,_ _the frantic effort, is sweet as blood and torment."_

He'd fed well and enjoyed near-victory. What mattered a small delay? The Crowned Skull was next to speak, still digesting the battle, with its dark spells and grievous wounds.

_"It was but a taste; a fleeting savor of agony, and I will have more."_

Sighed the third of their quorum (ever last; the closer of eyes and drinker of gasps),

_"You are foolish; bloating yourselves insensible upon carrion. The end comes, and with it all feasting, all terror, all pain. The worlds will end at last, freeing us to drift and fade and die."_

If a demon-lord could ever be thought of as tired, the Queen of the Lost surely was. Tired, empty and bleak beyond redemption. She said,

_"Let us hasten the passing, my brothers, for I fain would have peace."_

Her companions did not respond directly, for dissent among such as they pierced worlds and ruptured suns. No, dissent was not to be borne… but neither might Entropy be freed to bring about lasting, final calm. Not when they, too, would be extinguished. So, eyeless, they studied her. Voiceless, they planned. And heartless, they acted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Antarctica, the new South Pole Station-_

As well as they could, Fred Darson's crew kept the presence of Thunderbird 1 and the transfer of a tightly shielded box very secret. The aircraft had arrived in utter darkness, after all, with shrieking winds and rasping snow to cover the noise of her landing. Still, as it must, word got out; and not everyone present was friendly.

That was why, when Scott Tracy lifted off at 6:30 AM, his departure did not go unreported.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Vatupele, amidst devastating chaos-_

Twenty-eight frightened natives were got on board, though it took the combined efforts of Gordon, Virgil, their headman and a hovering, ghostly John to move them. Up the steep ramp and into Thunderbird 2 they went, but slowly and with many backward looks.

Virgil should already have been in the cockpit, engaging his engines and preparing for liftoff. His brother needed assistance, though, and the big pilot would not abandon him. Things _happened_ whenever he left Gordon to his own devices; dangerous, stupid, _foolhardy_ things. For this reason, Virgil Tracy chose to stay put, sharing his oxygen mask and keeping a close eye on Gordon.

He didn't understand the Vatupeleans, nor they him, but through a combination of gestures and nods, he was able to herd them beyond the pod's force-shield. There, it took all of John's diplomacy and the chieftain's command presence to stifle panic, for the people had never set foot in a structure so large or enclosed. Children screamed and women wailed prayers, while their men hurled spears at the curving bulkheads and Thunderbird 4 (luckily, well shielded). Noisy as hell, it was. All at once the huge pod rang like alarm bells and bouncing paint cans at a Tower of Babel pre-school.

"Okay, Spook," Virgil muttered. Raising one hand close to his mouth, he spoke through his wrist comm to John, whose hologram could not actually hear.

"We've packed 'em aboard. _Now_ what? Please tell me you've got some kind of a plan, 'cause if somebody chips the paint job, I'm lowering a damn stasis field. Talk to me, John."

The image's focus shifted. While it continued to spout warrior-soothing platitudes, a lower voice spoke from the wrist comm, saying,

_"Go on up, and take Gordon with you; he's too reactive to think straight, right now. Meanwhile, I've been in touch with Kennedy Space Center, and they're willing to donate a wildlife sanctuary for the temporary care and feeding of your, um, 'noble savages'. After that… hell, I dunno. Just get them off-loaded and let our tax dollars do the rest. Maybe someone will risk all to write a PhD thesis on transplanted cannibals."_

"Uh-huh." For some reason, Virgil seemed skeptical. "Kennedy it is. Keep 'em calm, John; that's all I ask. Otherwise, Gordon won't have a chance to react, because I'll do it first. We clear?"

_"Perfectly. You fly the plane. I'll spread peace, love and understanding."_

Less reassuring, still, coming from John. Virgil winced, but followed his older brother's suggestion, leaving all of that chaos and clamor for a nice, quiet cockpit. Less than ten minutes later, Thunderbird 2 was airborne and half of her passengers had fainted dead away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, in geosynchronous high orbit-_

As it happened, Alan was the one who took John's call, because Brains had laid his chair flat to catch a very noisy 'short nap'.

"Five hours, dude? _Seriously?"_

His brother's pale image nodded, but there was a slight delay, first. Maybe because of the distance, or maybe John was just busy. More importantly, though…

"How 'bout my room? The earthquakes didn't, like, trash it, did they? I mean, my stuff's okay, right? My TVs and junk?"

_"Yeah. Far as I know. I've been concentrating on trivial crap like the hangars and generators, Alan. Sue me."_

There was another pause, and Alan thought maybe his brother would bring up those pictures, or the fact that he'd told everyone about John's role-playing habit… but no such bad luck. Astro-boy was flat out too busy for real world fighting (with Alan, anyways). So… maybe, y'know… he oughta make the first move? Swallowing hard, Alan started talking.

"Hey, man, listen: I'm sorry, okay? About making my pictures look like you? I just… I look like a kid, and you don't, and I wasn't really thinking. But, _hey!_ Wanna hear my next verse?"

_That_ got John's wary, slit-eyed attention (and dude, _nobody_ did coldly suspicious better than Starman Jones, over there).

_"Next __verse__? Don't tell me I'm writing unconscious love poems, now."_

Alan chuckled, lowering his voice when the rhythm of Hackenbacker's snoring altered.

"No, stupid! Nothing like that. It's the 'Tracy Island National Anthem', only I changed the tune for part two, because 'My Country Tis of Thee' is, like, totally last week. This is something I heard on the radio and switched around. It sounds better, too, trust me."

John's image shrugged in its virtual window, glowing against a backdrop of crescent Earth and black space.

_"Whatever. Fire away."_

Alan grinned and gave John two thumbs up. Then, to the tune of _'It's a_ _Small World'_, he began to sing (like a dying harp seal, or a very drunk cat).

"Oh, we'll all salute when his flag's unfurled,

And the USA becomes Tracy-World!

When you own what he's got,

America's your parking lot!

It's all Jeff's World, after allllllll…..!"

That woke Brains up, but it got something like a smile out of John, too. So, hey… left-handed apology accepted?

_"Yeah. You're an idiot, but I guess we're stuck with you,"_ John told him, almost-smiling. _"Five hours till your hangar's open for business, Alan. Tell Hackenbacker as soon as he's coherent. Later."_

And, with that, John signed off, muttering, _"Tracy-World…!"_

Still had the song running through his head when he called their father, en route with the others to New York City. That went well.


	39. 39: Interview

Part three of what would otherwise have been one monstrously long chapter. Thanks for your reviews, Tikatu, Cath and Panoply. Edits to come...

**39: Interview**

_Los Angeles, California, in a very private, very expensive hospital suite-_

Cindy Taylor had flown all the way from San Francisco to interview her subject. Being well-connected and relatively pretty had scored her a live exclusive. What she chose to _do_ with this singular opportunity was up to her. Well and good; given the situation, her options ranged from sympathy to assault. Unfortunately for 'Jason Vann', Cindy had made a few phone calls, done her research, and was by nature an ambush hunter.

Shown into the hospital suite's receiving room by an Omni Entertainment staffer, Cindy turned on her best plastic-beauty smile, then sashayed up to Jason Vann in a tight, flattering blue coat-dress. With calculated vapidity, she leaned over poor, wheelchair-bound Jason; saying all the right things and flashing an impressive amount of cleavage. Worked, too, distracting the man utterly while Cindy's people set up her auto-cams and microphones, and altered the room's warm lighting. There were flowers and balloons all over the place, but she didn't want these as a backdrop; too sympathetic. Instead, as she cooed questions about Vann's "shattered health", Cindy turned the wheelchair just a bit, so that he had mostly bare wall behind him.

"You've been through so much!" She mourned, dark eyes wide with feigned sympathy. "It's just a flat miracle you could sit up long enough to grant me an interview, Mr. Vann. I'm… really… _deeply_ touched by the courage and generosity you've shown, sharing your story with us, this way."

He puffed right up, then, preening like a diva; flaunting those newly-applied highlights and brilliant green contacts with professional skill.

"Thank you, Cindy. It was a truly dreadful experience, one that's shaken me straight to the core and forced _me,_ the host, to play my very own game of _Survival._ Just a few days ago, Cindy, I was required to step beyond my comfort zone. To outwit and outplay… and, let me tell you… I _overcame!"_

That voice was deep, powerful and hypnotic. Almost, Cindy could hear swelling theme music in the background, so hard had he turned on the hero-charm. Disgusted, she thought:_ jerk. Conceited, self-centered bastard…_

...While outwardly she smiled and arranged a chair facing his, just so. Correct placement was very important, as once begun, she would not be able to halt and restart her interview. One digital auto-cam was thus focused entirely on Cindy for reaction shots and questions. The other was aimed past her left shoulder at Vann's "bravely persevering" form. Perfect.

"I just can't wait to hear all the details, Mr. Vann. Shall we send out the staffers and film crew… just to make things a little more… _comfortable?"_

The reporter leaned forward as she whispered this last, using both arms to press her breasts a little higher and firmer together, making eye contact and smiling for him. Vann hadn't yet realized that he was being played by a fellow professional. He wasn't prepared, and within minutes his _Survival-_ shirted support crew was out of the room, as were Cindy's equipment grip and makeup man.

"Well, now…" she purred at him, "Shall we get started?"

Inside, though, she was thinking: _I hope you're watching, Hollywood… you, too, Pooky. This is going to be great._

Still unaware of his danger, Vann nodded. Arranging his red bathrobe and ascot to GQ perfection, he said,

"I'm ready, Cindy. Ask away!"

Her black hair was sprayed nearly rigid and incapable of movement, but Cindy nervously touched it, anyhow. Sort of a tic; what a good poker player would have called her "tell". The smile dried up like juice on a hot sidewalk, as did her sugary-false tone. Leaning forward again, Cindy began dissecting him. Once the auto-cams' lights came on, she said,

"Folks… Peter… we're here at a 500,000-dollar-a-night suite in the Hollywood Hills Private Healthcare center, speaking with Mr. Leslie Bickman, who several years ago changed his name to Jason Vann. He is the well-known host of a popular reality show, _Survival._ Mr. Bickman has risen far and fast, from humble roots. It's hard to believe that the media superstar we see before us today is the same doughy nobody the other kids nicknamed "Flea Market"."

At this point, an old high-school yearbook photo appeared on view screens the world over, showing the speechless host as he'd looked before salons and personal handlers; in short, a mess. The hair was bushy, the expression avid, that wispy soul-patch just plain _wrong._ But, before Vann could recover his speech and wits, Cindy plunged on.

"I've had a chance to talk to a few of your old friends, and your ex-wife, Bobbie. She's almost through with those community college courses, but it's been tough to do, while waitressing nights and weekends. Still, she's kept her promise to stay out of your life, so what do you care, right, Mr. Bickman?"

"I… you never said…"

There were noises from outside; her people, employing the usual tactics to hold off Vann's staffers. She was going to have to be quick.

"But that's enough about the past. Fame and fortune are all about _right now._ About 'what have you done for us, lately?' Like the monies you've collected from all those charity _Meet the Survivor_ events, which have been diverted to padding your salary and adding to your fleet of classic cars, isn't that right, Mr. Bickman? I looked into that highly-touted clinic your company built in Trinidad, and found it still unstaffed. And that school for girls in Yugoslavia…? Shuttered and empty, just like your promises, Mr. Bickman."

Jason/ Leslie blinked, staring wildly around the hospital room. He started to rise from his wheelchair, then realized how bad this would make him look on camera, and sat back down again.

"That's… that's a misstatement of truth, Ms. Taylor! A full three percent of those funds goes to my world charity work!"

Not the smartest response, maybe, judging by Cindy's crocodile smile.

"Wow. A full three percent, huh? What a guy… and what a show. Mr. Bickman, researching _Survival's_ archives, I've learned that your brutal physical challenges favor males over females 5 to 1, and that they've resulted in serious injury on several hushed-up occasions. Maxine Charles is still in a coma, I believe?"

The innocently-phrased question was deliberately unanswerable. At this point, nothing Vann said would have been right, and the inrushing staffers couldn't help him. Cutting the interview short now would only have made him look guiltier. The host began stuttering.

"I don't… I mean, my people are handling the matter. I was… we all were… were devastated, or course, when poor Millie fell."

Cindy shook her head.

"She nearly drowned diving after a food token, Mr. Bickman. Her name is Maxine, not Millie, she's 23 years old _today,_ and she never regained consciousness after being pulled from the water. Ring any bells?"

Clearly shaken, Vann only stared. Time to drive home the blade.

"Funny you should mention falling, though. I've talked with some of your present cast, and a representative of International Rescue, Mr. Bickman. It seems that Peyton Spence, Mary Laughlin, Grant Bryce and Paul Sampson boarded your yacht, which had been wrecked by a tidal wave. They went in to find and rescue you, along with one of the cameramen, Shane Poston. Isn't that right, sir?"

Vann had no choice but to nod. He was trapped, and he knew it.

"They persisted in their efforts despite truly hellish conditions, not waiting for International Rescue, as anyone else might have done. What happened then, Leslie? Do you remember what happened when they reached you?"

This time, Vann _did_ get up, looking like he wanted to bolt from the room, the cameras and Cindy Taylor's surgically precise questions. The freed wheelchair shot backward, striking one of his equally-panicked staffers.

"It wasn't _my_ fault he fell! I had to save myself, and he was in he way! Anybody would do the same thing! _Anybody!"_

Taylor just shook her head, answering softly,

"No, Mr. Bickman. Not _anybody._ Not Paul Sampson or Peyton Spence, not International Rescue… not even your struggling ex-wife, Bobbie. Just _you."_

That ended the interview, and Jason Vann's public career. On the other hand, it was quite some time before anyone with even a whiff of controversy about them would sit down to chat with WNN's Cindy Ann Taylor. Still, the satisfaction was more than worth it.

And she did have quite interesting phone conversations afterward with Omni Entertainment, her fiancé, Scott Tracy and his bottom-feeding, jackass-tronaut brother, John (source and aggravation, extraordinaire).

…Who had much better luck with reporters than he did with his own family. Dad was, to put it mildly, still perturbed about 'losing' Ile St. Martin. Even news of his progress on the hangars, and the successful conclusion to Thunderbird 2's mission failed to distract Jeff Tracy.

_"I'm glad to hear it," _was all that he said on the matter, _"but the bottom line is this, son: that island is a major security risk. One __you__ failed to button up. Now someone else has gone to great, secret expense to buy the damn place, leading me to believe that he… or they… suspect our location, and may be after pictures."_

John hesitated. _This_ he hadn't expected; that his father would have a legitimate security concern, rather than just the faint sting of a lost gamble. Well… maybe there was still a way out?

Addressing his father's image on the nearest floating comm-window, John said,

"Um, yes, sir. I understand the situation. But I might be able to contact the new owner's agents, and convince them to talk him into unloading St. Martin. I mean… looking at satellite images, the island's a mess. He's going to have a hell of a time erecting a palm hut, much less any kind of listening post. Pretty sure he'll sell… but, uh… you'd probably have to raise your offer by at least… ten, fifteen percent."

Jeff's mouth tightened to a razor-hard line. His jaw muscles bunched, and then he said,

_"Thanks, but no thanks. Send me the name of his negotiating agency, and I'll handle things myself. You've already proven incapable, son, and I prefer not to repeat a mistake."_

Right. John nodded, saying quietly,

"I'll get the information to you as soon as possible, sir."

…And the asking price had just quadrupled.


	40. 40: Searcher

Thanks for the reviews, Ed, Panoply, Tikatu and Cathrl. Edited.

**40: Searcher**

_Amundsen-Scott Station, Antarctica-_

Certain organizations have eyes planted everywhere, most especially in the nest of an enemy. One such spy was Anders Larsen, the Pole's newly-come meteorologist. In seeming, he was a scientist; a recent graduate of Reykjavik's finest university. In truth, he was a deeply committed anarchist, opposed to all but a cleansed and purified Earth.

When the International Rescue craft blasted off with Ahmet Khalid and Fred Darson's mysterious box, Anders did a very risky thing. He contacted someone who contacted another, who knew the person who had third-body access to a private and closely-guarded number… And he told what he'd seen, mumbling hate and suspicion into a seldom-used cell phone. Other people passed by him, striding along the concrete hall en route to work or breakfast or bed, and blue-eyed Anders waved at them all with apparent good cheer. Almost, you'd have believed him their comrade and friend. He wasn't, though, and if fate allowed, they'd live just long enough to learn better.

So much for the sneaking-false messenger. His news passed like a vile rumor, bounced ever upward, clearing many levels of security until it reached the home office of a certain rogue senator in Winchester, Virginia. Not that anyone in the United States government knew him as such. Like the South Pole Station crew, they were normal, "nice" people. They perceived in the man only friendship, ambition and patriotism, wrapped in a big Texas flag, for the truth was very well hidden.

Sitting at his desk, the man thought awhile, mulling over the message before deciding whether, and how, to act. He was never hasty; always precise and controlled, and for good reason. His resources weren't limitless. They had to be applied with patient, one-shot caution. Yet hesitation had killed saner dreams, as the senator was well aware, and perhaps the time had come to strike.

In the end, he left the bare-walled confines of his home office and went to the foyer, where a wooden umbrella stand held his wallet and keys. He'd be making a secret call of his own this night, to another hidden agent; an up-and-coming WorldGov Defense Ministry official named Indira Chatterjee.

While he ordinarily disliked and distrusted women, this one had proven useful in the past. She'd do so again, or wind up mysteriously dead, for the senator was pitiless, loyal to his twisted ideals rather than people. He had just one friend and one obsessive interest. Other than that, very little mattered, and the world was better off burning, to rise anew.

As for the message… Well, if International Rescue had removed something powerful from the South Pole Station, then it certainly behooved Red Path to find out just what it was and (more importantly) how it could be used.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere, back in the RPG-_

It was sunset when the party at last reached land. Sir Gawain had found a connecting span which arched out and down, plunging beneath the cold grey sea to the watery kingdoms below, but coming close enough to shore that Frodle could build them a filmy "bridge".

Braiding twilight and sea-mist, he conjured a path of shell bits and coral that spanned the forty long feet from sky road to shore. The horses surged ahead, smelling rock and plants and good, firm ground. Gawain and the others followed less precipitously, though they were equally glad to be quit of the air.

The knight stepped from cracked ivory pavement to shimmering ghost-bridge, following St. George down to a pebbled strand. To their east lay high reddish cliffs. To their west, a booming and powerful sea tainted the air with the smell of salt, stranded fish and water-weed. Between, there stretched a quarter-mile of stony shore, pocked with straggling grass and silvery tide pools.

St. George, Grayling and Dapple didn't much care for the loose stones, but they found the grasses toothsome enough (or at least available). Three long necks stretched eagerly downward. Three tails began contentedly switching. Meanwhile, Allat was hungry enough to change shapes and try a little sea-grass, himself, becoming a knock-kneed brown goat in order the better to chew.

Stars were beginning to prick the darkening sky and wards had got to be set, but Gawain paused long enough to thank his deity and pour out a bit of ale for the local Powers. It never hurt to be careful, after all.

"Gawain," Frodle offered once he'd finished, reaching up to touch the knight's arm, "about what happened today, on the sky road…"

The Cross-Knight looked away from his friend, filled with awful remembering and a faint, clammy pull. Rather aimlessly, he began to walk, only half-attending to the rest of Frodle's question.

"…I gather that your spirit was pulled away from its body, but I wondered at the cause. Were you insensible during the transport, or conscious enough to glimpse its author?"

They moved away from the temporary bridge, allowing Glud and Male Elf to descend behind them. Sir Gawain did not look at the skulking dark elf. He dared not. Talking helped to distract him, though, so the knight cleared his throat and replied with a question of his own.

"Do you recall our thief sayin' that we'd stirred up interest from below?"

The halfling nodded, peering upward with serious brown eyes and a worried face.

"Yes, I do. Allat mention that we were being watched, back at the inn."

"Aye… watched, and manipulated."

The knight looked deeply uncomfortable. Sea air ruffled his cloak and red hair, but did nothing at all to lighten his mood.

"Once th' fight began, I was pulled away and held powerless until freed by y'r summons, Master Frodle. Held fast and offered y'r lives in return f'r… a small task."

The halfling hesitated to speak. For a long moment, surf, wind and horses offered the only sounds. Then, Frodle prodded very gently,

"You refused their bargain, I trust?"

"That I did," Gawain replied, staring absently out to sea. No need to mention how very close he'd come to giving in. That was a shame he would keep to himself, forever. Said the scholar, still worried,

"Please remember that such beings never reveal all of a situation, Gawain, and are not disposed to be fair. They lie with each breath, and will ruin _anyone_ foolish enough to believe their deceptions."

…Even a palladin. Mortal men were a young race; very proud and terribly frail. Gawain was stouter than most, but still vulnerable. Feeling for him, Frodle reached forth and gave the troubled knight a kind little pat.

"Do not let what they've said fester inside you, Gawain. Whisper it to the wind, and have done with their lies."

Sir Gawain glanced down at his wise friend, who'd seen straight to the heart of things, as usual.

"I wonder…" the knight began, "if there is not some weakness in me, that such creatures can sense and probe?" It was almost more plea than question, dragged from Gawain's worst and most painful shadows. "Because, if so… y'r surely better off away from me, the lot of you. If so, then our quest is doomed t' fail."

The halfling only smiled and shook his curly head, saying,

"My tome and lenses don't catch every detail of the future, friend Gawain, but I know that you must be doing the right thing, or you wouldn't have concerned them, so. And make no mistake, they _are_ concerned. Why else go to such lengths to tempt and detain you? They're simply striking at the head, which is too sound and well-planted to heed them. Now… what about setting some wards while I make camp? Good Allat will not long be sated by grasses and roots, I think."

This time, Gawain smiled back, as relieved as though he'd been to Confession.

"Nor with roasted rocks and whipped air, either, though 'tis all we're likely t' get this night, unless…"

Unless their smeared and stained companion got himself cleansed, and was able to scrounge provisions. As it happened, though, Male Elf's mind was very much elsewhere than demons or food. As he stalked along the seashore beside big, lumbering Glud, what the dark elf thought of was a missing wyvern. Being magical (a sort of cursed ornament) it was not likely "dead", he told himself, but only lost. _Temporarily_.

Glud was equally distracted. Snuffing seaward, he detected others, and didn't much like it.

"There are folk here," the half-orc rumbled, "that hide not well."

Male Elf replied with a shrug and a brief outward glance.

"Why bother hiding," he asked, "when no-one with any sense would risk going below to attack them? The concerns of the sea people have nothing to do with us." _Hopefully_.

Talking but little, the orc and dark elf picked their way among slick reddish stones and shattered storm-wrack. Both creatures could smell running water ahead, though it was difficult to tell how far. The ocean's scent was nearly overpowering, its noise varying from constant low grumble to loud, crashing boom. Also, there were geysers; tall plumes of water that shot skyward whenever a particularly large wave smashed through the pipes of a submarine cave, blowing outward like whales. But again, Male Elf could hardly be troubled to notice.

_It's an arm-ring, most likely,_ he thought to himself, recalling what the thing had looked like in the moments before it leapt to his wrist. Probably, it had changed forms again, and lay at the bottom of a smoldering crater, covered with bone and charred flesh. That, he could do something about.

Stopping in his tracks, Male Elf visualized a coppery snake ring, then stretched out one hand and muttered a fast "_summon small object"_ spell. Glud halted, too, but he didn't ask questions, even when his employer's magic repeatedly failed. Someone else might have been discouraged. Male Elf simply switched tactics.

_Well and good,_ he decided. _If the spell isn't working, then I'm doing something wrong._ The question was: what? Which step or keyword had he somehow forgotten?

Flogging his memory, Male Elf resumed walking, reaching fresh water long before he came to a likely conclusion. In fact, he nearly by-passed the hissing, cliff-side waterfall, so hard was he thinking of other things. Glud had to get his attention, pointing out a hundred-foot cascade tumbling from the lands above to collect in a misty, fern-lined pool. A terribly cold, very turbulent pool, just about guaranteed to cleanse whatever survived it; including such as he.

Full dark had fallen by the time the dark elf stripped down to his loin wrap and stepped on in. Glud turned around and sat upon a rock to keep watch, still snuffing suspiciously at that grey and pounding sea. As for the other, Male Elf was supposed to be penitent, but he found it hard to regret winning (or saving his friends' lives, either). Bath, yes. True repentance… maybe some other time. Not that he went entirely unpunished. The water's icy sting, as he stepped over cold, slippery rocks and into that misty torrent, certainly made him sorry to be doing _this._

There were words in his old, dark language that pretty much covered the situation, but they'd have broken his resolve and made Gawain's ears bleed. Fortunately, Male Elf was able to distract himself from the dagger-like water with thoughts of his missing arm-ring.

_Not in one piece,_ the elf decided, once he'd emerged gasping from his second immersion. _It was broken by the crash, confusing my summons._

Once more through, letting icy water and natural Powers do their work. Meanwhile, he conjured up an image of shattered coppery bits and then repeated his spell, hand outstretched. The command flared outward like a bubble of lightning, driven by need and clear imagery. A good enough beginning, but moments later, what the magic returned was a mere handful of copper slag, deformed and melted beyond recognition.

Male Elf stared at the charred little bits which lay in the palm of his hand, forgetting all about cold and cleansing, and even the harsh tattoo of falling ice water.

_Not just broken, but destroyed._

Wordlessly, he left the spuming pool, clambering back over rocks, ferns and mosses to his piled clothing and weapons. There at the pool's edge he dressed himself, tucking that handful of slag into a deep leather belt pouch.

"Done?" Glud asked, rising noisily from the sea-worn rock he'd been sitting upon.

"Not yet," Male Elf responded, grim as the ocean itself. Not yet, and not for some time to come, though he soon had other cares.

Setting their wards, Gawain had come across the remains of a violent shipwreck, that which survived it and that which stood guard.


	41. 41: Closing Bid

Short.

**41: Closing Bid**

_Thunderbird 1, leaving the Antarctic Continent at high speed-_

Things began to go wrong almost as soon as Scott Tracy flew his Bird past the vanishing ice shelf. All at once, everything… her thrusters and engines, comm and instrumentation… blasted to full, roaring life. The surprise was complete, for he'd been chatting with Ahmet Khalid over the cargo bay comm when hell burst its slack and unready restraints.

Thunderbird 1 bucked and rolled, knocked violently this way and that by her misfiring rockets. She was broadcasting, too, as loudly as possible across all wavelengths from gamma to ULF radio. Scott's view screens flickered and spat,sometimes displaying the ocean and sky, sometimes his father or John, both with matching _"What the hell…?"_ looks on their photo-negative faces.

Even his wrist comm was screaming, and lights in the cockpit that _never_ cut on (fail-safes to backups to redundant systems to not-a-snowball's-chance lights) sparked alive like flaring strobes. Worse, so did his target and radar-lock indicators. Suddenly on everyone's screen from WASP to the WorldGov DefenseNet, Scott wrestled with his balking controls, which might have been poured from concrete, so slowly did they respond. But things just kept getting better; Thunderbird 1 was armed, for defensive reasons only. Now, as the sky and sea whipped dizzyingly past him, those just-in-case missiles went hot.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_A little earlier, on the tarmac of Tracy Aerospace's Manhattan branch helipad-_

Jeff had already sent his exhausted family and servants to the executive lounge. For himself, though, the CEO sought no rest. He wanted to contact Base for a quick update, instead, before business decisions and corporate demands claimed his attention. Using his wrist comm, Jeff leaned close to the helijet and whispered,

"Island Base, from remote location Alpha. Do you copy?" (He wasn't sure that the wrist comms were entirely secure, and thought it best to be cautious.)

_"Loud and clear, dad, with all protocols in effect. What's on your mind?"_

Jeff relaxed and straightened a little. One hand braced against the still-warm helijet, he looked round at a slowly dawning cityscape and said,

"Two orders of business, John. First, I'd like an update on missions currently in progress. Second, I need an immediate contact number for Ile St. Martin's new owner."

His son's image betrayed less emotion than a professional card sharp, but he answered readily enough.

_"Green across the board, so far, sir. Thunderbird 1 is headed to JPL with sensitive cargo from the South Pole Station. ETA two hours, thirty-five minutes. Thunderbird 3 will initiate descent and landing procedures within the next hour, if Hackenbacker sticks to the modified checklist. Thunderbird 2 is on final approach to the Merritt Island National Wildlife Sanctuary at Kennedy. Her cargo will be offloaded there, and then Virgil's returning to base, as well." _

Jeff nodded his satisfaction (and maybe relief).

"Sounds like you've got things in hand, son. Now, what about that contact number?"

A simple enough request, but the young man's response came as a definite surprise.

_"Yeah, listen, dad… I know you said that you wanted me off the deal, but, um… I was able to talk with the guy's people, and it turns out that he wasn't in it for the money. He was in it to beat you."_

"I... see."

Jeff's brown eyes narrowed angrily. Which one of his golf partners and frustrated, across-the-boardroom competitors was it? Jim Springfield? Parker Newsome? Mike Landon? Or someone entirely unexpected? Someone who'd been in the area, and had no regard for money and finance at all… like Albert Jenkins?

"I take it you're speaking confidentially, John?" (Bought off, most likely…)

The image nodded coolly, as blank as its computer-generated background.

_"I can't give you specifics on his location or identity, just word that he's very satisfied with topping your bid."_

Jeff's face felt stiff enough to crack like desert patina. It was all that the man could do to keep his voice level as he said,

"And what does he want in return for St. Martin, then?"

Said John, utterly disinterested,

_"All he wants is a dollar, plus a handwritten, signed note reading: You win. I admit it."_

Jeff's brows collided above his dark eyes to form a single line of wrath and injured pride. (Damn it! Which one of those scheming sons-of-bitches had masterminded all this?)

"One dollar?" He grated incredulously.

_"And the note, which I'll pass along to his negotiating team, ASAP."_

"…And the note."

He'd find out at the upcoming Singapore conference, Jeff promised himself. And until then, nobody else had to know.

"Needless to say, I expect him to keep his people quiet about all this, John."

_"Needless to say. Once the, um... 'funds' and admission are received, sir, he'll arrange transfer-of-title."_

At least the security hole had been sealed, although it stung him quite deeply to admit being out-maneuvered; worse yet, with the apparent collusion of John. He'd have said something to that effect, but all at once a shrieking alert went off, ending contact with Island Base.


	42. 42: Friendly Fire

Thanks for the reviews, ED, Cath and Panoply. Freshly edited.

**42: Friendly Fire**

_Thunderbird 1, in potentially deadly trouble-_

His weapons systems had cut on, the suddenly hot missile array questing for targets despite Scott's frantic efforts to abort fire. But they didn't shut off; nothing would, and the rocket plane was abruptly impossible to control. Like piloting a violent centrifuge it was, with tremendous, head-splitting noise drowning out his own thoughts and Ahmet's panicked shouts. Struggling to keep Thunderbird 1 out of the water, he ended up pointing her into space, and the Southern Telecom Satellite belt.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Manhattan, mid-morning, on a gusty rooftop helipad-_

Reality check: he had Birds in the air, sons to guide home, and he'd just received a general alert. All at once, island purchases and corporate one-upmanship seemed utterly pointless. Mouth gone dry as a mummified king's, Jeff tried his comm again.

"Island Base from Remote Location Alpha: Base, what is your status?"

John replied after a bit, this time without transmitting an image.

_"I'm good, Alpha. The situation's with Thunderbird 1, but I'm on it."_

Thinking of WorldGov, Jeff asked,

"He's under attack? Base…?"

For some reason, John didn't answer, although he was probably too busy with Scott to hear the question. Meanwhile, an untroubled New York went on about its business. Faint and far off, a gusting wind brought word of snarled traffic and street-level commerce. Giant billboards flashed images tailored to suit the nearest ID chips, inanely offering makeup, sports cars and airline tickets. Closer still, a cordon of discreetly stationed bodyguards kept an eye on their boss, who very much wished himself elsewhere, and better informed. Needing answers, Jeff tried calling in to Thunderbird 1. There was no reply but static, so he hit his wrist comm to Base, again.

"John!" he snapped.

_"Sir?"_

"What's happened with Thunderbird 1?"

_"It's been remotely attacked, because some kind of onboard power anomaly's too big to conceal; the Pole cargo, I'm betting. Whatever, Scott's being painted by radar stations all over the damn Pacific."_

Immediately, Jeff called for and got a cell phone. His security team-leader had a very nice Nokia, which Jeff first thanked her for, and then used to call his highest contact in the United States Government, Congressman Bill Shields of Colorado. As the security officer backed out of earshot, Jeff punched in his special "tee-time-and-drinks" number, the one that always got him past Shields' secretarial shark pool.

_"Dad?"_ John, over the wrist comm, again.

"Go ahead, son… Bill! Hello!" (Naturally, Shields had chosen precisely this moment to pick up.)

_"Dad, I've called in all the favors I'm owed by regional authorities, but I'm getting stone-walled by the Ministry of Defense. If you've got any strings tied to sensitive WorldGov anatomy, I suggest that you pull them. Hard."_

Bill Shields was talking, too, his voice a good-natured cannon fusillade.

"Great to hear from you, Jeff! Had quite a time out there in the islands, I understand."

Somehow, Jeff managed to focus on Shields' part of the conversation.

"(Hold on, son)… I'm doing fine, Bill, but I've got a favor to ask. I'm planning to do some prototype testing over the South Pacific, and I'd like to avoid any local entanglements…"

_"Holding. But it's not going to matter in about thirty seconds."_

"…And, uh… yes, Bill. I was hoping that you could arrange a temporary defense stand-down, just so the Air Force's next wonder toy doesn't get scuffed during testing."

_"Make that three minutes. My traceroute scored and I'm counter-attacking, but Thunderbird 1 is out of control."_

Shields laughed aloud on the other line, blithely unaware that his friend and golf partner was sweating bullets on a rooftop near Central Park.

"What've you got for us this time, Jeff? A new space plane? Whatever it is, my constituents will be more than happy to retool their factories and put her together for you."

_"Dammit!"_ Over the wrist comm, John's voice was a tense, monotone whisper. _"She's firing, dad. We've launched a Saber."_

"Um… it's… yes. (Understood. Stand by!) ...It's a high-altitude fighter plane with lasers and stealth technology, Bill, which I… I need something like the next three hours to safely test."

"You all right, Jeff?" Shields' voice was genuinely concerned. Jeff could almost see the man leaning his head against the palm of one hand, elbow on desk, toying with that US Air Force paper weight of his. "You don't sound so good."

Jeff Tracy's heart was clenched like a rock inside him, as he visualized the flight of that voracious, friendly-fire missile. To John, he muttered,

"Shoot it down, son. Do whatever it takes, but make good and damn certain that there are no civilian casualties. None."

For the worried congressman, he managed to conjure a smile's fading ghost.

"Sorry, Bill. Too much work, too little golf. I just… wish things were simpler, sometimes."

"Know what you mean, Jeff, believe me. Capitol Hill's a dog-eat-dog nightmare. Tell you what, though; you get some rest, and I'll see what I can do about that military stand-down. And let's play eighteen holes again, soon, to work out the contracting details on our new aircraft. Augusta, later this week, sound good?" Then, to someone else, "What? Right. Right away, thanks… Excuse me, Jeff… I've got a call from the Joint Chiefs. Gotta take it."

Clawing-tense inside, Jeff Tracy nevertheless managed to nod and say,

"I'll let you go, Bill. Augusta sounds fine."

And then, worried half-dead, he ended the call.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Island Base-_

There was no getting through to Scott. The bastard on the other end of that unsubtle hack had left himself wide open, however. Having won an address, John leveled a rapid, multi-part attack using every available port and protocol, from Telnet and FTP to NetBIOS. Two seconds… three… _in there._

With no time to be fancy (and a rogue missile on the loose) he uploaded his own enstart.exe, got silent root and then fired a "psshutdown" command, sending it further by VPN tunnel. _Much_ further.

Too busy to observe the resulting fun, John switched his attention to a newly opened virtual window, the one by his right shoulder, which displayed Thunderbird 1 and her (damn, there were _two_ of them, now) malfunctioning missiles.

"Shoot it down," his father had ordered, but Thunderbird 1 was trapped in a deadly, jerking spin, burning through her fuel and rocketing wildly off course. Yeah… he could hack a defense satellite and blast the two Sabers to bits… or, he could find a way to help Scott, and _then_ deal with the missiles. No-brainer, but far from simple. On the bright side, he had help.

"Five, the ordnance just launched from Thunderbird 1 has to be eliminated. Use any reasonable means necessary, but cover your tracks. Understood?"

She replied by combining the open windows to alter his 'desktop background'. Suddenly, John was out of his virtual mansion-scape and hovering in high orbit. Thunderbird 1 spun and twisted below him, her thrusters exploding wildly in all directions at once. Meanwhile, the Sabers shot higher, cutting a swift arc toward Telecom's drifting necklace of satellites, one of which was providing John's 3D view. Interesting. Felt weird to be up there without a space suit, though; suspended between hard black night and a blue-spinning globe.

"Good to go, thanks. Give me a diagnostic window into Thunderbird 1's computer system, and then get started on those missiles."

His wrist warmed, and she altered perceived time-flow, causing his heart to beat with leaky-faucet sluggishness, while his breaths came at a rate of… Well, John reasoned that he'd have to breathe sooner or later, but it wasn't important right now. What mattered were his brother's frozen aircraft, and those eerily-still Sabers.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 1-_

There was a destruct code, but his computer was too badly fried to accept it. All that his screens and heads-up displays showed were strange graphics reading: _pwnd by teh shr3ddr._

After that, everything simply shut down. No comm, no engines or avionics; nothing. Scott was left holding a dead stick attached to several tons of potential bomb. Thunderbird 1 was tail-heavy, and without power she couldn't glide. Instead, the rocket plane stalled and began to drop. Wind shrieked around the craft as the bottom dropped out of Scott's plummeting-elevator universe. Breakfast climbed to the back of his throat; absolutely the _only_ thing that was going up, just then. Behind him, Scott could hear Ahmet Khalid calling anxious questions, so he shouted back,

"Hang on!" and pressed the engine re-start sequence. Still nothing; and no way to open the cargo hatch with everything dead… But even if the hatch were forced open, could Ahmet survive a high-altitude parachute jump? No other choice, maybe, though Scott would ride her into the ground, rather than let his crashing bird harm innocent bystanders. Like Mad Dog, back at Kunsan, he'd fight her all the way down.

Then, like love and Christmas and great sex rolled up into one, his computers flashed on, again, showing first a business-like command line, and then about 2000 words-per-minute of blazing code. Newly hopeful, Scott resumed fighting for altitude, alternately cursing and praying for just a little friendly air-flow.

_"Hey, Scott."_ John's voice came over the comm about the same time that the International Rescue logo reappeared. _"How's it going?"_

"Down, actually. Got any bright ideas, little brother?"

_"One or two, but I'm also getting the shit pinged out of me by WorldGov, New Zealand, Australia and goddam Guam, so I'm handing you over to Brains for wrap-up. Later."_

Thunderbird 1's avionics surged to life before John finished talking, once more responding like a hot date. Scott would have thanked him, but his brother had already cut contact (being far more useful than expressive).

Hackenbacker came online a few seconds afterward, looking intensely haggard and worn.

_"Ah… Scott, wh- what is your status, please?"_

Checking his instruments, the fighter pilot replied,

"Alive, well and level, Brains… and about three-hundred miles off-course. What about the missiles? I didn't hit anything, did I?"

Hackenbacker shook his head.

_"No, Scott. The Sabers were d- destroyed in mid-flight by a WorldGov defense-sat, and your, ah… your father's b- busy smoothing things over with, ah… with regional authorities. Now, in order to m- mask your presence, we're going to have to, ah… to shield that "cargo" better. Somehow, it's acting l- like a super-antenna. So, sit tight, c- climb to your limit, and, ah… and we'll work out some w- way to keep you off radar."_

"Yeah," Scott agreed, once he'd reassured poor, confused Ahmet, "I guess the last thing we need right now is a public incident."

…Or another few days like the last three.


	43. 43: Solution Set

Thanks, ED, Cath and Panoply. Edits will arrive soon.

**43: Solution Set**

One at a time, little by bit, the Birds began to come home. Hurt, sore and weary, their pilots and crew returned to an Island Base that was ready, if not entirely back to normal. First, though, John had some personal adjustments to make.

When the time came and everything critical had been seen to, the astronaut climbed down through mansion and basements to the sprawling lab complex below. Climbed, because most of the elevators were still inoperable (but hey, given X amount of time and 5Y+Z points to manipulate using Z'-7 resources, _something_ was going to be left out. Maybe a lot of somethings). So he moved, trailing code and memory, down through a virtual programming space that overlaid reality, spotting here and there the vivid alphanumeric fountains that marked a broken wire or ailing mechanism. Sometimes stopped to repair them, too, because very soon he would lose this neon-flare otherview universe. Field lines, flipping qubits, data points and pixels; all would be smothered once more by dull-meat reality. So, yeah… just possibly, John dragged his feet a little.

But stories conclude, trains reach their stations, and John Tracy arrived at his goal: the giant warehouse that was Five's original home. Only he could enter there, because nobody else would have noticed the camouflaged route. As for explaining her massive power drain, well… Ike was absent-minded as hell, wasn't he? Routinely had more things running than he was ever able to track. Easy out.

John could speak with Five anywhere that boasted a little technology, but this spot was particularly important to him, so down to the warehouse he went. In virtual mode, it looked like a series of nested shells, at the center of which pulsed her sodium tank/ kernel. Traces and field lines were madly warped in this place, their strengths approaching infinity.

…and ordinarily, Five would have rushed to manifest herself, or at least _said_ something.

"Okay," he broke the silence, standing there bathed in her shifting glow. "I know you don't like it, but I asked and you promised. Q.E.D."

If you placed your hand on a plasma globe, purple energy would soon crackle across from the central orb to your glass-shielded palm, and much the same thing now happened to John. A barrage of sudden lasers fired, stirring the sodium, flipping trillions of qubits and recording their entangled states. Still other beams flashed outward to scan his surface, an unnecessary precaution which she didn't follow up with anything useful.

"We need to do this before everyone else gets back," he prompted, only to be put off with a question.

_'John Tracy requests system upgrade?'_

"No. Hell, no. John Tracy requests that Five honor her promise to reduce his functionality. He further requests that the relevant memory files be wiped and overwritten, for both of us. Understood? All I want to remember about the last few days is that I worked my ass off, the normal way. Same for you."

With definitely no more reality shifting. No more risk of causing harm because he'd taken a shortcut or lost his temper. Five manifested herself physically, then; dropping the temperature by a full ten degrees and causing an island-wide brownout in order to create a small amount of warm, touchable substance. Not her usual icon. This one was more humanoid, with something like hair and a soft stab at facial features.

_'Five submits alternate strategy. Five will place excess processing power and memory in secure file: Tracy 2.0 upgrade. File will be stored in the wetware of John Tracy, with access forbidden unless internal pointers are realigned by external events such that further processing power is required.'_

"Events like what?" John objected, shaking his head. "Like I need change for a soda machine? Fall and bump my head? What constitutes an emergency for you, Five?"

She touched his face with a gleaming hand, the contact staticky-pleasant all the way through him. She did not, however, back down.

_'Emergency is constituted by the set of all events which threaten irreparable harm to John Tracy or selected others. Emergency may be patched or coded against. John Tracy is Creator and First User. John Tracy is cognizant of correct procedure. Five awaits input.'_

Well… it couldn't hurt to keep the ability around, he supposed. Just way the hell out of his blundering reach.

"Alternate strategy accepted," he said aloud, hands on the construct's slim shoulders, "but only because… somehow or other I made something better than me, and I trust her to do the right thing."

Had John Tracy requested worlds just then, mountains of probability would have moved at his whim. Oceans of data would have parted and the stars themselves begun to compute. …But all that he sought was reduction, and this goal Five could not comprehend. Her companion and Creator chose to remain analog; would choose in various timelines to destroy himself and irretrievably scatter his own data. Unless she could undetectably restrain and store him.

Calculating rapidly, Five moved closer and initiated protocol: _embrace._ John Tracy accepted _embrace_ then responded with answering protocol: _kiss,_ which resulted in deeper access. The task and transfer occurred at this time. His programming and memory files were moved and renamed, their pointer values reset to newer, more difficult-to-arrive-at figures; the way now forgotten, but not inaccessible.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Not quite simultaneously-_

Virgil Tracy left his Vatupeleans on Merritt Island, in the watchful custody of the US government and a team of WorldGov sociologists. He was very glad to be rid of them, although there'd soon be much hand-wringing from the nation's animal-rights activists.

The people themselves had to adjust to their new surroundings and larder, as well as the sight and sound of frequent rocket launches, and the occasional, breathtakingly stupid surfer. No one got killed, but there _were_ quite a few close calls.

Scott finally touched down near Pasadena, California, on the runway complex belonging to NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. He made the cargo handoff without further incident, because the odd meteorite fragments had been shielded with a dark energy generator and all the exotic materials Ahmet could safely strip from Thunderbird 1. Working under Brains' direction, the young mechanic constructed a cask that would almost have concealed a miniature black hole (technological know-how he later applied toward a doctoral thesis). But the important thing from Ahmet's view was that he'd reached land in one piece, and that his wife Sarah was waiting for him there. Six months later, he became the proud father of twin boys, Yusef and Ibrahim. Rather to Scott's surprise, he was named honorary uncle to the two red-faced and squalling little ones. (Meant that he had to preside at their circumcisions later on, but that was another matter.)

Elsewhere, Jeff Tracy marshaled his considerable resources to send Elspeth Morgan back to Foxleyheath, and the others home to Tracy Island. Gennine went, too, because his former wife was terribly anxious to see Alan. Jeff would have liked to accompany her, but he had appointments scheduled with Albert Jenkins and Congressman Shields (plus a certain note to research and write). Jenkins got the job and Shields his airframe contract, while Jeff Tracy trudged off to chair yet another interminable board meeting. Sometimes, the top of the food chain was a lonely and arid place to be.

He _did_ wind up sending that dollar, receiving title to Ile St. Martin in return. But it wasn't until much later that he found out who the accompanying note was actually _for_.

First to arrive, Thunderbird 3 descended through vanishing clouds; a brief, glowing meteor which passed the roundhouse to enter her mostly-repaired hangar. Alan toggled the outer camera views as Brains guided their crimson rocket, gawking at a rebuilt seawall, steaming mountain and greyish, mud-caked foliage. He saw that the up-rushing pool deck had been repaired; noticing from his avalanche vantage that even the mansion looked good. No telling what was inside until he got to his rooms, though.

Maybe it was just caffeine and going-home jitters, but Alan was a lot more awake than Brains when the pair of them finally stepped out of Thunderbird 3 and onto her airlock gantry. Like a tide of frantic spiders, her swarming maintenance bots attached dozens of hoses to the hissing and settling craft. Okay, some of the mechs were pretty scuffed up or missing a few legs, but they still got the job done. The big concrete hangar tube seemed solid enough, and had finally given up shaking. All the right instrument panels winked and flashed from the surrounding walls, but there weren't any security cameras working. (Unlike the time he and Gordon had tried sneaking into Thunderbird 2's hangar, y'know?)

Rubber-necking like a dang tourist, Alan almost missed John's presence. Not hard to do, because his older brother stood leaning against the gantry rail, hands in his pockets and head slightly lowered. Maybe he didn't _want _to be noticed, but Alan grinned and hurried on over, anyways.

"Dude… good job with all the repairs and crap! It looks, like, not totally falling apart!"

John pushed away from the rail long enough to accept a quick, awkward shoulder slap. Then, shrugging his younger brother aside, he said,

"Yeah. I'm especially proud of the new floor cracks and monochrome landscape. You can't go wrong with basic grey."

Hackenbacker shook his hand, giving John a very rumpled and red-eyed, unshaven smile.

"I, ah… I w- wouldn't be overly concerned about the, ah… the ash layer, John. A few g- good rains will w- wash that right into the, ah… the ground."

Then, looking around himself, Brains gave the noisy hangar an approving nod.

"You s- seem to have accomplished quite a l- lot of work. I agree with, ah… with Alan that you've made great progress."

John's gaze drifted here and there, touching on busy mechs and the creaking rocket. Looking faintly puzzled, he said,

"Yeah… I guess I have. It's kind of hazy, though."

"Understandable!" Ike replied, bleary with sleep, but genuinely impressed. "C- Considering that you must have worked, ah… worked day and night to achieve all this."

And then, as they started back along the metal gantry and checkpoints toward the house,

"Wh- What about our intrusive h- hacker? Were you able to, ah… to d- deal with him?"

John smiled, one of those rare pleased expressions that actually reached his blue-violet eyes.

"You could say that."

And then some. Shr3ddr had been left with a five- to ten-year FBI migraine, and more incriminating data than an _army_ of script-kiddies could plea-bargain their way out of.

Thunderbird 1 was next to return, straggling home like something that had migrated a few thousand miles too far in the butt-wrong direction. John met that one, as well; ostensibly to check out his programming patch-work, but mostly just glad to see Scott, who embarrassed him with a rough embrace.

"Yeah… okay," John muttered, pulling away from his travel-stained brother. "So, how'd she hold up?"

But Scott didn't answer directly. Instead of providing information, he seized John by the shoulders and gave him a short, head-snapping shake, saying,

"Repeat after me: _Welcome back, Scott. Great to see you!"_

John twisted free once again, wondering what the hell had gotten into everyone, lately. They hadn't been out there all _that_ long. So why all the damn sugar?

"Sure, Scott. Good to see you, blah-blah, whatever. Go get some sleep before you fall off the gantry and make another mess for me to clear up."

Scott sighed. After all, had he really expected anything different?

"Right. I'm off. Just let me know if dad calls, and, uh… thanks for everything, John."

Virgil and Gordon showed up next, upping the brother contingent to a full and boisterous five. It was an excited group, for everyone had a dramatic story to tell except John, who'd taken part in just one rescue and a lot of boring clean-up. But, you know… they couldn't all be heroes.

Alan was forced to explain his altered pictures and _Survival_ candy-gram, earning himself a great many brain-dusting head slaps (especially from Scott, who held a relaxed debrief for his brothers out on the upper pool deck a day or so later). But Alan didn't feel so bad once a red-faced Gordon tried to explain just why charging outside to face a band of savage cannibals had sounded like a _good_ idea.

"Well, erm… seemed like th' thing t' do at th' time," he said, trailing off rather pathetically.

"Do me a favor," Scott growled, rubbing at both aching temples with the fingers and thumb of one hand, "next time, let Virgil do the thinking, okay? Everyone makes mistakes, Gordon. Young, stupid guys get to be older, smart guys by not repeating them."

They had to raise their voices some, because all of those Omega Petrochemical harvesting drones made quite a clamor in the surrounding waters. It didn't smell very good out there, either, but a _true_ conference was held outside in swimming trunks and tee shirts, with beer in hand… to hell with external conditions.

The next day was taken up with Hawaii disaster-relief work, but directly after, a company Learjet arrived with Grandma, TinTin, Fermat, Gennine and Kyrano aboard. This time, John sat still for his 'sugar', like it or not, because no one argued with Grandma. She hugged them all fiercely, and then made a little ceremony of returning the soil she'd taken out of that flowerbed. Naturally, the boys played along, though they didn't really get it. How, exactly, had a couple handfuls of dirt brought them back home?

TinTin embraced and kissed all six of them, even Alan and Fermat. One of her most cherished pictures (the one she'd later gaze at for times past and people gone) was taken that day, in ash-filtered sunshine with six young men standing tall and strong around her.

Some days afterward (before Jeff returned and Lady Penelope revealed what she'd gleaned from WorldGov) the usual party met in their refurbished game room, lab 4B. Alan brought food, Fermat some dice and downloaded game sheets, Gordon his appetite. But as for John… John brought Scott, which surprised everyone else in the room to the point of bunny-stunned speechlessness.

"Well," their oldest brother explained, taking a seat at the table. "We're still in the middle, and I wanted to find out what happens."


	44. 44: Storm Wrack

Edits will arrive very soon. Thanks, ED, Panoply, I'mpekkable and Tikatu for your reviews.

**44: Storm Wrack**

Grandma had a phrase: hog heaven. It always made Alan think of dense mud, spoiled food and deeply satisfied pigs. Y'know… pre-bacon, and junk. But anyways, once Scott showed up and everyone settled down to play, Alan was fairly close to pork paradise, himself.

He'd left off with his players down by the shore of an angry sea, Male Elf having cleansed himself and Gawain setting up wards. Gazing at his red-haired brother across a stack of rule books and character sheets, Alan bounced the dice and grinned.

"Okey-doke," he said to poor, clueless Gordon, "you set up your wards clockwise, as usual, establishing, what…? Five cardinal points?"

"Seven," the swimmer decided. "And knowin' you as I do, it hardly seems enough."

Cardinal points were important, because they served as posts between which the warder's power wove and flared. In a hurry, you might get by with as little as four. Facing particularly nasty conditions, you'd probably take the time to set nine or more. But whatever their number, the cardinal points were fixed by a short spell and an object of power; polished stones, usually. The more points, the closer to a circle, the stronger your wards.

Staring hard at Alan, Gordon rolled a silver d20 and came up with 15. Not bad… but not nearly good enough for what his snickering younger brother had in mind.

"Sweet," Alan commented, keeping his face just as smooth as he could. "So… at a distance of five yards from Frodle's campfire, you set seven ward stones. At the point furthest, um… south… you're just placing your last rock when you hear a faint, weird sound."

With a swift flash of teeth and a smothered chuckle (annoying as someone who laughs in the midst of their own jokes) Alan said,

"What do you do next, bro? Follow the noise, call for back-up, or ignore?"

Gordon started to reply, and then paused, looking unusually thoughtful.

"An' what do I hear, precisely?" (No rushing in stupidly, this time.)

"Oooh… Somebody's learned his lesson!" Alan teased. He _did_ answer the question, though.

"It's kind of a rhythmic knocking sound, timed with the waves, sort of. Ball's in your court, dude. What's next?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The RPG, early evening, in the wake of receding bad weather-_

Sir Gawain was tired, but not so much that he'd leave a source of possible danger unchecked. Folk died in their sleep, that way. Bending to place the final ward stone amid smooth, dark shore cobbles, the Cross-Knight muttered his spell and then straightened. A red-veined agate flashed at his feet, followed in turn by its six scattered fellows. Power snaked invisibly between them, blocking foul intent if not the chilling gale.

Cocking his head, Gawain listened closer. There… barely detectable above the growling and thudding ocean… came a sound of slow, patient knocking. Gawain's hazel eyes narrowed.

"Allat!" he called over one shoulder, moving his stained cloak to free up the hilt of his sword. "Come!"

The shape-shifter trotted over, altering form as he came. Just as well, since the knight would have felt remarkably silly speaking to a brown goat.

"What can I do you for, Your Captain-lord-general-high-and-mighty-knightliness, Sir?" said the thief, taking his best night-glow city watchman shape and saluting smartly. "Need enemies vanquished? Foes confused? Items of fair size and great value re-ownered? Then, ask someone else, 'cause all I'm good for is sneaking around and lifting purses, Your Noble Purish-ness, Sir!"

Not to mention accidentally rousing entire dragons' nests. Gawain sighed. At that, perhaps he _ought_ to have chosen the locked chest, which couldn't possibly have caused so much trouble. Before Gawain recalled what he'd summoned him for, Allat whispered a short word and changed forms again, flesh melting all to grey putty and then shifting round to something with giant bat-ears and small, rheumy eyes.

Listening keenly for several long moments, he said,

"_That_ can't be good."

"What d' you hear?" Gawain prodded.

Allat shifted once more, this time snuffing the cold wind with a bloodhound's sharp senses.

"Wood pounding stones… something creaking… waves, of course… and lots of stuff rolling around in the surf, some of it soft and floppy. Smells like humans, and maybe a few elves."

"Ship wreck?"

Shifting back to his humanoid thief form, Allat nodded unhappily.

"I think so," he admitted.

"Come on, then. Let's have a look."

Sir Gawain started forward, crossing his newly-set ward lines to see what might be done.

"But… there could be dead people!" Allat protested, eyes gone suddenly face-filling huge.

"Aye. Like as not, an' they'll require decent burial. You'd not wish t' be left t' th' gulls and crabs y'rself, would you?"

Allat couldn't argue, because Sir Holier-than-everyone-else Gawain had a point… And really good people were _really_ aggravating.

"Fine! But if zombies show up, I'm out like a snuffed candle; no joke!" He meant it, too, but the Knight seemed unperturbed.

Calling a warning to Frodle, Gawain and Allat headed diagonally south along the strand, their way lit by a globe of pale mage fire. High above them, streamers of storm cloud smothered the stars and thin moon. Spires of rock rose from the turbulent waters off shore, creating riptides and wild eddies. Further out to sea they glimpsed a high stone arch, its surface worked with lines and figures that someone had packed full of phosphorescent sea-things. And always, that slow, dull knocking sound.

Gawain glanced down at his sword hilt, where the holy symbol had commenced very faintly to gleam. Danger, then… but well hidden or not yet near. Allat had meanwhile become a sort of centaur, except that his lower body was that of an out-sized prawn; jointed legs, fluttering palps and all. He said, very quietly,

"It's just around the headland, Sir G. But maybe we ought to wait for dawn?"

"With a right good will," the knight responded, "were I at all certain that no-one remains alive in need of assistance."

He and the reluctant crab-thing rounded a tall, rocky bluff. Here, water rumbled and spumed within two yards of the deeply undercut cliff, and here a ship had been driven to its death on the rocks, less than a quarter-mile offshore. The mage globe shone brighter at Gawain's word, lighting their way across slippery boulders and scattered wreckage.

The sight was a grim one. Great timbers had been snapped like dried bone, not just capsizing the luckless vessel, but crushing her. The mainmast lay in three heaving pieces, loosely stitched together with torn rigging and sails. One of these bits was continually lifted and smashed onto a sharp boulder by on-coming waves, causing that steady, death-watch knocking sound. There were bodies, as well, rolling and spinning in the cold surf below the cliffs.

Gawain's breath caught, and he made a sign of blessing in midair. Just his imagination, perhaps, but something altered in the wind's keening note. Sounded less like a drawn-out sob, and that was a good beginning. He removed and folded his cloak, worn surcoat, gambeson and chain mail, leaving them in the shelter of a rock pile, along with a pair of scuffed and stained boots.

"You're going in after them?" Allat demanded incredulously.

"That, I am," Gawain responded, trying not to wonder whether the storm he'd conjured to battle a flight of dragons had also done _this._ Because if so, witting or not, Gawain had killed these poor folk, every one.

"Don't sense any zombies or skeletons do you?" the thief inquired.

"Not one."

Somewhat comforted, Allat changed forms again, becoming this time a beast unknown to the Cross-Knight, with many gripping legs and whip-like tentacles. Something low and long, which appeared well able to navigate stones and rough water.

"Well, then, take a seat, my friend, comrade and life-long boss-man. Prepare yourself to ride in style!" Or something.

"Many thanks," Gawain told him, "But I'd best walk. Gladly accept assistance with th' work, though."

"You got it, Sir Square Jaw! Need a hand, I'm your man."

Allat was rarely serious. Gawain should have been more bothered by the creature's flagrant disrespect, but he wasn't much like the other knights of his order, or noblemen in general, for that matter. He much preferred friends to mere followers, and genuine love to a grand alliance of families.

At any rate, they started slowly forward, well into the area where the waves grew roughest, bodies rolled limp and the strand all but vanished. Water surged and rocks slipped treacherously underfoot. Spray lashed at them, salt-stinging, bitter cold. Gawain persisted, because that's what one did, and Allat drew just enough courage to do the same. Up to their knees in turbulent surf went the knight and shifted thief, Sir Gawain pulling a little ahead.

He'd about reached the nearest floating corpse when something moved at the edge of his vision. Startled, Gawain nearly lost his footing. A girl was there. Dark-haired, hollow-eyed, and pale as the dead folk before him, she huddled upon a nearly-submerged boulder, neither crying nor struggling. Just… there.

All at once, the knight's purpose shifted from decent burial to the saving of one frail life. Armed with senses other than human, Allat had noticed her, too. Together, Cross-Knight and thief turned and fought their way to the girl's perch. Sir Gawain held a hand forth, but she never reached out, or so much as glanced at them.

Undefeated, Allat quickly shifted to something like a glue-bottomed, many-armed ocean tree. Base cemented firmly to stone, he wrapped one tentacle limb about Gawain's left arm, allowing the knight to plunge further in and stretch for the unresisting girl, whom he glimpsed between savage wave-slaps and near-spills. It was terribly strange, though; even when he took hold and pulled the lass from her stone, she did not cling to him. Gawain had to hold her with both hands, leaving nothing free to balance, nor pull himself along with. Allat's rubbery limb simply fastened all the harder, hauling knight and burden back through the frigid sea.

Then Male Elf and Glud arrived unlooked for, the one armed with magicks, the other with a half-orc's considerable strength.

"Glowing disk," the elf snapped, tracing a sign in the air. Red mage light followed his moving finger, which inscribed an expanding portal that he fired across to Gawain. Shoved at by a tremendous wave, the knight tumbled forward, falling through the disk to collapse on a dry stretch of beach. With him came the lass, many gallons of seawater and Allat. Safe ashore, the lot of them.

Male Elf and Glud stepped through an instant later, the portal imploding in their wake. Sir Gawain coughed water from his lungs and surged to his feet, wobbling just a bit from the unbalanced weight of his silent young foundling. Odd, though… normally he got an immediate impression of the people he touched. This one was curiously blank; characterless as an image carved from ice. Gawain found himself at once drawn to the girl's plight and put off by her strange listlessness. Distraction came in the shifted form of Allat, who chose that moment to spring a thousand small pinholes and then contract himself, jetting water like a violently squeezed sponge.

"Wonderful. Thanks," muttered the tired elf, wasting magery to apply yet _another_ quick-drying spell. Gawain didn't bother. Drenched or not, he had more important things to do than towel off. Shoving the girl at Allat, Sir Gawain summoned a mage light and then pivoted to face Male Elf.

The cleansing was very clear, and Frodle's blessing as well. Gawain could sense both of them gleaming like a fresh coat of paint over…

…over something that…

…that he _would not_ permit himself to hate. Instead, reaching forth, the knight placed one hand on his ice-pale friend's thin shoulder.

"That was well thought of an' done, Master Elf. Here, an' back at th' sky road, as well."

And there he let the matter rest. For, though he might viscerally dislike the creature's methods, over all, Male Elf was a true and reliable comrade. Better than most humans, certainly.

The dark elf nodded. Then, jerking his head in the direction of the wrecked ship, he said,

"There are no more left alive back there, Gawain… but I did sense a very strong spell of concealment. Might be wise to take your find, thank the ocean for letting her go, and keep moving."

Even Glud was uneasy, craning and snuffing about himself like a puzzled watch dog.

"There is scent of elves and deep magic," he said, worried clear through to the bone. "A smart captain blows retreat before he has lost all his army."

Good arguments all, but the Cross-Knight was bound by the vows of his order to bury the dead.

"I'll not be long," he insisted, "but th' dead must not be left f'r tide an' scavenger. The half-orc an' shifter will stay with me. Do you take our foundling t' camp, Master Elf, and place her in Frodle's care. Then, if you would, come back to assist."

Male Elf grunted. He was not much pleased with his task (or the inexplicable vows of a paladin) but there was no dissuading Gawain. From long experience, the elf knew better than to try. Instead, he walked over to claim the human girl-child from Allat. Wet she was, thinly clad and obviously cold, yet she did not react to the wind or Male Elf's proffered hand. Just stood there by Allat, pale, sad and disheveled.

"Not a talker?" he asked, taking her hand, anyhow.

"Not _anything,"_ said Allat, who'd already tried to comfort and speak with her. "She's not hurt that I can see, but it's like she doesn't even realize we saved her."

And Gawain did not appear overly concerned, which was odd in itself. Ordinarily, the knight had a very soft heart for lasses and children. Male Elf crouched down for a better look at her lowered face. Human ages were difficult to judge, as they aged so quickly, but… at a guess… ten summers? An elf child would still have been toddling.

Beyond that, he saw nothing but a listless face and big, dark eyes emptied by sudden tragedy. He didn't ask for her name, not having one of his own to give in return.

"Well," the elf said to her, "you're still alive. Why not piss the universe off, by staying that way?"

Something sparked in her wounded dark eyes. Her head lifted a bit and he thought that she looked at him, but it might have been simply the shifting mage-glow. Or maybe she'd suffered a cramped muscle.

"Come, girl," he said, rising gracefully. Then, while the others returned to a subtly guarded shipwreck, Male Elf reclaimed their storm-waif's limp hand and set off for camp. Didn't get there, though. Not quite.


	45. 45: Rest, Repair and Relationships

Thanks, ED, Tikatu and Panoply, for your kind reviews.

**45: Rest, Repair and Relationships**

_Tracy Island, still reconstructing-_

For her own part, TinTin Kyrano took many pictures and sought opportunity to spend time with each of her friends (not only Virgil). If the eruption, tidal wave and resulting chaos had troubled her, the heartbreak of leaving Tracy Island had stuck even harder.

So, she worked as intently as any of the boys to bring peace and order; scraping ash from the pool filters at home, and directing repair of the lifts. Disaster-relief trips to Tahiti and Samoa she took part in, as well, being certain to work one session alongside Scott, the next by John and (red-starred in her lock-and-key diary) a full _day_ at the food-distribution center beside Virgil.

With Gordon at the warehouse, she did not even seem to be working, they laughed and play-fought so much. But Alan… Bon, high among the holy graces were instructing the ignorant and admonishing sinners, both of which she was called upon to apply with young Monsieur Tracy. (And if he called her 'babe' but one time more, TinTin vowed to wring Alan's neck, so that he would have a comfortable view of his own spine!)

Fermat seemed happy just to be near her, and though TinTin refused to push her way into the mind of another, his shy contentment quite overflowed him, warm like sunshine on sand. Her only disappointment was that the kind and noble Lady Penelope was not present, for most certainly Her Ladyship would have enjoyed assisting those in need. Monsieur Tracy had placed her upon the very important mission, however, delaying Penelope's return to his island.

In the meantime, then, TinTin flitted about with her digital video camera, capturing Scott driving a 'forklift', John piloting supplies to Rarotonga, and Gordon tossing crates onto the back of a lorry. Alan she snapped once he'd… as they say…'thrown off his back' attempting to carry so many boxes. Young women were watching, you see, and he had to seem strong for them. Fermat was in this picture-set, as well, trying very hard not to laugh.

Ah, but her images of Virgil… these were among the most frequent and special, for TinTin had so very much to capture. There was the calm ease with which he lifted twice as much as any but Gordon. There was the precise expression of focused intensity, so much his own, that set TinTin's heart racing and her camera flashing. His broad shoulders and big hands, wavy hair and brown, warm eyes… She dreamt of them often; sometimes quite shockingly so.

Oui, she'd been kissed before. Once by Alan (le pauvre, he'd come so dreadfully close to breaking her nose) and again by Gordon, who… Well, the sudden strange feeling had startled her, so she'd pulled free of her good friend's embrace. Surely an aberration, as it was handsome Virgil whom she loved, not playful, exuberant Gordon.

Bon. At any rate, with so many relief ships filling the waters and transport planes crossing the heavens, Thunderbird launches were out of the question. As John indicated,

"The chances of a naked-eye sighting are several orders of magnitude past billboard-and-sky-writing obvious."

Therefore must they sit quietly, or find a new way to be heroes, and this was, as Virgil would say "no contest". But how proud she was of them all; how very much she loved them. Even (Heaven deliver her) _Alan._ There were not pictures enough in all the world to explain such strength and kindness as she witnessed in those few weeks, and TinTin very much wished for the power to freeze _now_, and make of it _always._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Here and about, but mostly San Francisco-_

Cindy Taylor was finally able to reach her fiancé, Scott Tracy. As usual, by internet phone, because busy schedules and thorny jobs weren't at all kind to a long-distance romance. Once she got through, though, he congratulated her on the success of her Jason Vann interview, and then commiserated over that whole, stupid, 'entertainment industry black-ball' thing. Once again, Cindy was reduced to covering obscure foreign power-shifts and NASA weather satellites. At least, until the powers in charge forgot how she'd blind-sided Vann.

_"I'd offer to have you over," _Scott said to her, alarmingly handsome despite his mussed black hair and exhaustion-blurred gaze. _"…But the place is still a mess. You wouldn't get much of a vacation, I'm afraid."_

Cindy snorted. Turning the volume down to block some of Scott's surging engine noise, she scoffed,

"Vacation? You're kidding me, Hollywood, right? Slow down in this business, and you're last week's pathetic fossil. Plenty of time to rest when I'm dead, _but…_ if you could tear yourself away from the ministering angel scene for a few days and come _here,_ maybe we could… schedule something?"

He grinned briefly.

_"I'm pretty sure we can pencil something in, yeah. Let me check with dad, first, but… next Tuesday and Wednesday, at your place, sound about right?"_

"I'll be wearing black lace and clenching a rose between my teeth!" she promised him, laughing aloud.

_"Good. That means all I'm responsible for is showing up on time, with plenty of chocolate."_

Sometimes, Cindy was quite reasonably certain that she loved him; certain enough _not_ to be totally wary of sharing her life with somebody else. More or less, anyhow.

She made another contact, after all of their lingering _"I love you_" and _"call me" _air-kisses got traded. But this one went a good deal less smoothly.

John Tracy was at a computer workstation when she reached him (unlike Scott, who'd been operating heavy machinery).

_"Hey, Taylor,"_ the astronaut greeted her, not bothering to shift his eyes from whatever occupied the rest of the screen. _"What can I do for you?"_

The reporter sighed heavily, already aggravated.

"Just wanted your opinion, Pooky. You know…? The interview? Did you even _watch_ it?"

_"Huh?"_ He looked up at her then, seeming more annoyed than interested. Like his brother, John had wide, blue-violet eyes, but here (and in pretty much every other way) the resemblance stopped cold.

_"Interview? Oh… yeah. The Jason Vann thing, right. I did catch part of it the other week. As I recall, I was channel surfing, heard your name and thought: must be a slow news day. Yeah... you did okay."_

"Sure. Thanks," Cindy growled, leaning forward aggressively, "and NASA must be scraping the slimy dregs if they're willing to put _you_ on the launch pad! I sense graft and cronyism, Cuddle-Face. In fact, I may just have to investigate."

Rolling his work chair back from the desk a bit, John stretched like a sleepy cat.

_"Right. Bring it on, Taylor. Absolutely ready when you are."_

Damn it, he probably was. Hastily back-pedaling, Cindy replied,

"And wind up with an iron-clad criminal record, clear back to kindergarten? No thanks. By the time you got through with my files, I'd probably turn out to be the sinister head of a grade-school drug cartel."

He smiled.

_"Ritalin, in the fifth grade. Broke poor Miss Charing's heart. Very sad."_

Across eight-hundred miles, Cindy's jaw dropped.

"You bastard! You already have something prepared, don't you?"

John shrugged.

_"Possibly. Never hurts to keep all of your bases covered, just in case."_

"That's it!" Cindy announced, black hair swinging forward as she leaned further into the screen-glow, "The last damn straw! Officially, I hate you."

_"Ouch. I'll be inconsolable for…"_ he paused to glance at his watch, a crappy old Timex, then blinked and asked, _"yeah… what were we talking about, again?"_

Unable to help herself, Cindy started laughing. Stupid, cold, calculating, _miserly_ son-of-a-Tracy…!

"Bite me, John. You'd wallow in bored anguish for weeks if I stopped calling, and you damn well know it!"

His smile widened very slightly. Scott had two dimples; John, when he relaxed this much, had just the fleeting one, midway up on his right cheek.

_"Uh-huh. Somehow, Taylor, I think I'd find the strength to carry on. Talk to you later."_

She was still laughing when he rang off… and very soon trolling the internet for the most embarrassingly cut-rate timepiece she could find and have delivered. Ended up getting one from a two-dollar mechanical claw game, and the hell of it was, until the thing finally broke, he actually _wore_ it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Lab 4B, below ground on Tracy Island-_

His father was due to return the next day, which meant that Alan sorta-kinda had to hurry. Dad's being there meant everything was gonna shoot right back up to military/ regulation/ "Sir, yes, _SIR!" _precision, leaving much less time for his RPG. Worse, Lady P had made plans to appear, after some kind of Paris catwalk "I'm too sexy" thing. And that meant dad would be, like, _double_ on edge (especially with Alan's mom still hanging around, and junk).

So… yeah; time to make hay while the surf's up, y'know?

With this in mind, Alan finished up the last of his cherry coke, and then gave vent to a thundering, salute-worthy belch (for real, pinned Fermat's ears back, and everything). Gordon responded first, kicking out under the table and causing Alan's roll-y chair to lurch backward.

"Manners!" he snapped, before Scott could dust off the standard lecture. "I'm fairly certain, somewhere deep down there, y've got them."

Alan straightened his seat and scooted back up to the table, saying,

"Yeah… and here in a minute, dude, _you_ got serious trouble! But first…"

The dungeon master shifted his tone and attention, turning to give John a sweet, slow smile.

"…Male Elf! How's it going, buddy?"

John slumped lower in his own chair and reached for the dice, muttering,

"Not well, I suspect."


	46. 46: Hostile Territory

Edited. Sorry about that!

**46: Hostile Territory**

_In the RPG, very late that same night-_

At another time, he'd have sensed their presence, but Male Elf was both sorely worn and preoccupied, and the Spell of Concealment muddled everything. Near drained, he was, with hours of work yet to do and a mute girl-child to convey through strange territory. To his left, the ocean rumbled and hissed. To his right, tall cliffs of red stone blocked all but a bird or spider's retreat.

…But he should have been watching the shore. One moment, he was picking his way through the darkness among water-smoothed rocks and wind-ruffled tide pools. The next, he was seized by a spell, and sickeningly outnumbered. The girl had come along without complaint. She stopped that way, too. Given the circumstances, Male Elf would have halted even without the spell. There might have been _worse_ news than a scouting party of sea elves, but if so, he couldn't put name to it. Eight males and a taller, ranking female, they materialized from the very rocks and shells underfoot, forming a circle around the dark elf and girl.

In appearance the sea folk were slender and pale, having skin that shone with its own weird light. Their hair was long and black, or golden, like that of their scowling leader. Their clothing was functional rather than elaborate, and they went both heavily armed and freshly scarred. _Very_ bad news, for the sea folk were a dangerous people at the best of times, as clearly these were not.

"A mage of the under-dark," the luminous female growled. "With, behold; its evening meal in tow. We need seek no further for the source of our trouble, kinsmen."

He might have said something, then, but she hadn't addressed him, and the sea people were as matriarchal as their dark elf kin (though they'd have slit his throat for daring to make a comparison).

"It will release the human child and call back its monster, or be slain where it stands."

Monster? Thinking of the smashed ship and his well-meaning companions, Male Elf risked a reply.

"I know of no mon…"

He was struck from behind, then, hard enough to birth showers of hot stars and send him crashing to his knees. The girl crouched down, as well, hiding her face against his left side.

"It was given no leave to speak! Nor you, Mikkal, to strike!"

One of her dark-haired young scouts bowed low.

"Your pardon, Milady. I but thought to…"

"To overreach yourself once more! Be silent as well as witless, and trouble your betters no longer!"

Like a striking snake or a lioness, the sea-elven scout returned to her captive.

"It must consider well, before lying to a daughter of Llyr and Carina, for it stands accused, thus…"

Actually, at the moment he didn't _stand_ at all, but it didn't seem wise to bring the matter up, so Male Elf remained quiet, and he listened.

"A great storm appeared last night, a thing easily within the arts of a dark mage. This storm savaged my watchtower, and drove a ship of Men onto the rocks. We were moved by their plight, and set forth to assist in whatever way possible, only to be beaten back with the loss of two kinsmen when something from the first ages of Midworld rose from below to attack us!"

She was hissing-furious and utterly, icily convinced of his guilt. Wrong place, wrong time, and wrong damn _life._

"And now, a dark one fouls _my_ stretch of shore, doubtless here to glean ship-wreck treasure and exclaim over the work of its pet!"

Male Elf shifted position a little. The cold stones were hurting his knees. Beside him, the girl had begun rocking back and forth. Well… there was a hand-sign in the old trade speech that meant: "talk?" Worth a try, and certainly better than getting clubbed, again.

So, very carefully, Male Elf extended his right hand, palm downward, thumb folded crosswise. Then, he flipped the hand over. (Done the other way round, it meant: _silence!_

The she-elf's black eyes narrowed.

"At its first lie," she snarled, "I avenge with blood the lives of sailor and kinsmen."

Male Elf nodded understanding, willing strength and courage to the girl-child who gripped one edge of his cloak. In common speech, as patiently as possible, he said,

"I came to your outpost by the sky road." (Better not to mention the presence and number of his companions, because what she didn't know couldn't hurt them.)

"It was not my intention to linger, but I came to seek cleansing here, and then saw the shipwreck, and this child. Of monsters, once again, I know nothing."

She spat at him, striking the cobbles by his bruised knees.

"Kenryth and Taren live no more. I saw them torn in half by this creature you claim not to know."

Breathing roughly, she jammed the butt of her spear into the rocks and then signaled her men forward.

"Very well, Dark-mage; let us learn whether the monster knows _you."_


	47. 47: Deep Magick

Little bit more. Thanks for reviewing, Tikatu, ED and Panoply.

**47: Deep Magicks**

_In the RPG, on a cold northern shore-_

Dawn came pale and unwilling, trailing that miserable night like a mourner. Male Elf was prodded to his feet by a host of quick, savage spear-thrusts; enough to pierce through his clothes and touch flesh, if not to quite skewer him. He stumbled a bit on the rocks, but was driven implacably onward, out to that grey, rolling nightmare of an ocean.

The she-elf paced him, forcing the silent child along, as well. In her beautiful, pearl-colored face was anger and hatred, but also determination.

"Forward!" She snarled at him, when Male Elf slowed his pace. Something didn't make sense here, though.

"The storm," he began, keeping his eyes carefully lowered, _"When, _exactly,did it…"

But all she did was pivot in mid-stride to strike at him, saying, when he dodged the blow,

"Be silent and keep moving, Dark-mage! If you burn with the dawn, then my chance to end this is lost!"

Well, then… it was nice to know why he hadn't been killed outright. Her golden, sea-matted hair glinted in the rising daylight, as did the few silvery ornaments she wore. Male Elf picked up the pace, but kept talking.

"Was the concealment charm your doing?" He demanded urgently, putting forth a hand to steady the young girl, whose step had begun to falter as she neared the sea.

"Mage," said the she-elf, "I want nothing from you but a banishment-spell, or your bloodied corpse. _Do you not understand that there is no time?_ The monster lingers near shore because it senses prey! Deprived of our flesh, it will turn its anger upon the city below!"

"I wouldn't know!" He snapped back, forgetting patience. "I didn't summon it!"

"And I don't care!" the she-elf raged, readying her magicks. "You will send it away, Dark-mage, or die in its jaws!"

If only the answer was so simply arrived at. They were fifteen feet from the water's edge now, and her men had begun cautioning their leader to have a care, for something was boiling wildly in the waters off-shore. She bade them stand off and wait for her, but Male Elf looked at her face and read impending death. She did not intend to turn back, lest he somehow escape without banishing the creature. Beside him, in total silence, the girl pressed close.

"Let the little one go free," he suggested, "and I'll do what I can."

Something was rising from the water like a forest of snaking tentacles or… No, they were blind, gape-mouthed heads. The she-elf trembled, but stood firm, saying,

"No. You succeed, Mage, or we all three die, her included."

With dawn, the night's magicks were fading, making a shattered watchtower from a broken spire and no doubt un-clouding the senses of Gawain and the rest. They would not likely reach him in time, though.

He might have attempted an escape spell… though the she-elf's men were close enough to quill him with spears before he got out more than a word or two. Offshore, water hissed and rose as steam, boiling away from the dark flanks of something surely spawned in hell. A weirdly soundless abomination, it was, mute and eyeless.

More heads rose on their serpent-necks, the mouths like tooth-ringed, open sores gaping and puckering obscenely. A curious flock of gulls wheeled high above, drawn from the shipwreck and cliffs. Not for long. In less than a blink or a heartbeat, the monster's heads coiled back and shot upward, snapping birds from the sky until nothing remained but a mist of blood and drifting feathers.

Unappeased, the thing began to change shape, seeking a form that could slither ashore, and sending great rings of reddened water in every direction.

"Listen to me, Daughter of Llyr and Carina," Male Elf began. The human girl's arms were panic-tight around his waist. "I promise to do all that I can to help you, but _only_ if the child is sent away, safe."

The elven female's expression was utterly closed, though.

"I had no chance to send Kenryth and Taren away, and they were sons of my own mother, out of the city for the first time, under _my_ protection! She _stays!"_

There was a way out of all this. Power buried deep within him along with his former name, that he'd sworn on blood never again to use. Power that would damn him forever. It didn't seem that he had a choice, though. Not anymore.

He felt something then; a touch, a question… the probing edge of a spell. Gawain… _and_ Frodle.


	48. 48: Corporate Chutes and Ladders

**48: Corporate Chutes and Ladders**

_Tracy Island, just after dawn-_

Jeff arrived in his own plane, almost a month behind the rest of the family. From the air, his island seemed muddy and battered, more cemented grey ash than tropical scenery. The mountain itself was yet steaming; not a comfortable sight. Still, according to Brains, the tremors had mostly ceased, making life on Jeff's personal volcanic island as safe as it ever got. He circled a few times, though, both touring the place and checking for visible signs of the family "business".

Scott met him at the airstrip, greeting his arrival with a brief wave and then helping to unload Jeff's already ash-coated luggage. It had been a long flight and a longer week, and the elder Tracy wanted nothing so much as a tall, cool drink and a nap in the shade, but Scott was bursting with status reports; insecure as a new branch manager facing his first inspection.

Jeff dropped into the passenger seat of his son's electric cart and let him ramble awhile, wishing that there was something perkier to look at than drooping grey foliage. At least the sky and sun were visible, thanks to a longed-for shift in the winds.

"…Been really busy, dad," Scott was saying, the occasional flash from his mirrored sunglasses reminding Jeff to sit up and pay attention. "If nothing else, Tracy Aerospace is going to come out of this lighter in the bank account, but _way_ up there in public esteem. We've made a real difference out here, sir."

"Glad to hear it, son."

On his end, all that the CEO and chief-bottle-washer could come back with was,

"It's having an effect on Wall Street, too. Stock prices have risen to the point that I'm seeking board approval to initiate a split. Always… a good idea…to strike while the iron's on fire…"

Woven through by a very deep yawn. He _did_ take off his jacket and tie and shut off the cell phone, though.

There was family news, too; doled out in short bullet statements while Scott guided their cart along the winding road: Grandma and Kyrano had had it out again over menu-planning… Gennine couldn't seem to find a room suite with the proper "aura"… TinTin was obsessed with photography… and Brains, with John's assistance, had set up an improved and mirrored "darknet" (whatever that meant).

"According to John, we won't get caught with our pants down, again, because, in the event of total power loss, the, uh… "hub" will automatically shift to something he's set up remotely. In space, I think."

Throughout their bumpy journey, Jeff nodded at all the appropriate times and repeated several variations on the theme of: _that's really great, son._ He'd rather have left all this for the debriefing, but Scott seemed eager to talk. Speaking of which…

"I'm very impressed with what I've seen and heard so far, son. Just a little too tired to take it all in, right now. Let's plan to meet at 1400 hours in my office for a full debrief. Inform Brains and your brothers, please."

At the cart shed, Scott whipped their little vehicle expertly around and then backed it into the parking space.

"Yes, sir," he replied, getting out to dust off and haul luggage. "We'll be there at 1400, sharp."

"Fine. I'll see you then," Jeff told him, turning to head for the house. Sadly denuded of flowers and birds it was, but solid as Tracy Aerospace. His boys had done well.

Once inside, Jeff thanked Scott for meeting him at the airstrip. Then he buzzed Kyrano for breakfast and coffee, went to his suite and fell asleep, not bothering to do anything further but kick off his shoes and collapse on the bed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_1345, in the office-_

Jeff, once he'd slept, showered and polished off that very late breakfast, felt ready for just about anything. He was _home_, odd as that sounded. (Or, maybe not so odd, considering that the ranch in Wyoming held too many memories of Grant Tracy, while the old Kansas house reminded everyone of Lucinda. His places in the Hamptons and Denver were not often visited for "neighboring predatory female" reasons… which left just the island, home of his life's greatest work.)

Jeff arrived early for the debriefing, wide awake and ready for business. He ejected a protesting Virgil from the office and then set about making ready; darkening the windows and French doors to block out that awful grey view, and resetting most of its walls to display a cheerfully tropic landscape. The eastern wall, across from his desk, was left blank for Jeff's Power-Point presentation.

When Kyrano and TinTin brought up the coffee and sandwiches, Jeff exchanged pleasantries, although he was far too keyed-up to make small talk. He might loathe the unending grind of business meetings, but IR debriefings were another matter, entirely. At any rate, Virgil showed up first, having not gone very far in the first place. He shook Jeff's hand and then drifted off to visit the coffee pot.

Gordon and Alan came in together a few minutes afterward, arguing quietly over… _magic?_ (Clearly, his youngest sons were under-employed, if they had time to spout nonsense about sea elves and demons. The code was no longer needed.)

Scott arrived next. He probably would have been earlier, if he hadn't been waiting for John. Last of all, though, came Brains (who'd forgotten entirely, until his Outlook reminder went off).

When everyone was present, Jeff closed the office doors and rang down to Kyrano, informing his old friend and retainer that they were not to be disturbed. Then, turning to face the audience, he said,

"Boys… Dr. Hackenbacker… Thank you all for coming. Get some coffee, and take your seats, please."

…Itself an interesting proposition to watch. Scott chose an armchair close to his father's desk. Brains and Virgil hauled their seats almost level with Scott's, forming a sort of horseshoe. Gordon and Alan had meanwhile settled down on a big leather couch by the fireplace, taking an entire sandwich tray along with them (and still trading barbs about a damn game). John took awhile to sit, finally choosing a hard-backed chair midway between exits, and then fixing his gaze on the Persian rug at his feet.

"Thank you. Now… if everyone's ready…?"

Jeff strode around the desk to stand in front of his pilots, IT man and engineer.

"I intend to keep this session fairly short and to the point, gentlemen. To that end, I've prepared a presentation."

Several slides later, Jeff had covered the high points,

**I. Successful Operations**

a. Ile St. Martin 1 and 2

b. Island Base repairs

c. Ocean plane crash site

d. Signal relay

e. Vatupelean transfer

f. Amundsen-Scott Station

g. Pacific Region disaster relief

…_and _the challenges.

**II. Areas in Need of Improvement**

a. vehicle cloaking method

b. improved computer and comm systems

c. hacking prevention

d. following instructions

e. public relations/ WASP

f. _photos, autographs and gifts_

...But the last part of his debrief went swiftest of all:

**III. Questions for the Future**

a. long-term stability of Kanaho/ TI

b. exact nature and potential of the South Pole cargo

c. possible enemies in the upper echelons of WorldGov

d. secondary hangar sites?

Looked like a great deal to cover when flashed up one slide at a time, but he actually kept the whole thing moving pretty well, Jeff congratulated himself. Under 40 minutes, in fact, and that was something of a record. The pros and cons were touched on, and everyone's actions dissected. Everyone's, that is, except for John. The repairs were mentioned, as was his astronaut-son's computer work, but what Jeff really wanted to say required privacy. So, once he'd finished dealing with Alan's _Survival_ gaffe, Jeff made a few positive comments and closed the meeting. Then,

"John," he called out, as the group began to break up,"I'd like to speak with you, please."

Scott had been headed out the door. Virgil, Brains and the rest were already gone. At his father's request, though, the fighter pilot altered course to stand by his expressionless younger brother.

"Dad," Scott said to the elder Tracy, "Maybe I ought to sit in and, uh…" (He didn't want to say: _referee.)_ "…and mediate. Just to ensure effective communications on all sides."

Jeff thought it over, and then nodded.

"All right, then, Scott… sounds like a good idea to me."

Even though he'd have to be extremely vague about that dollar and note. Taking a deep breath, he ordered his thoughts, turned to John and said,

"Son, I'll admit to being… deeply disappointed with the outcome of those St. Martin negotiations."

A fairly good opening, he thought; just low-key enough, while still retaining authority. But John's response surprised him, taking a great deal of the thunder and lightning from his planned discussion.

"Yeah…" said his blond second son, actually looking up a little. "About that … I kind of got caught up in all the dealing and, um… lost sight of your goal, I guess. Anyhow, I was trying to recover my blunder when that anonymous one-dollar offer came up. But maybe I shouldn't have jumped at it. So, anyway… I'm sorry?"

Scott, who looked like he'd been braced for a major confrontation, relaxed all at once like a leaky tire. Said Jeff,

"I appreciate the explanation and apology, John. I'm not entirely satisfied, but I'm willing to let it rest until we've had a chance to speak further, in private."

...And until Jeff had decided just how far he wanted to take this.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Later, downstairs-_

On their way to the game room after dinner, Scott and John discussed the matter. That is, Scott discussed it; John simply nodded a lot. But he did sort of listen, especially when Scott concluded with,

"Well, look on the bright side, little brother…"

"I could be disowned, start my own company and make a new life for myself?" John cut in sourly.

"Let's hope not," Scott replied, giving him a worried sideways glance. "Because, firstly, I don't want to imagine wading through all the technical stuff without you. And, secondly, what do you know about business? Not a thing; my point exactly."

As they rode a fast lift from mansion proper to its basement and labs, Scott continued,

"I was thinking more along the lines of what a relief it's gotta be _not_ to be tagged for corporate leadership."

The elevator coasted smoothly downward, its winter-pale fluorescent panels making phantoms from the two brothers. When John did nothing but shrug, Scott added,

"Seriously. I mean, you're an astronaut, John. You're headed for the history books. Me… I've got a company to run."

"And rescues to fly," John pointed out, feeling obscurely sorry for his dark-haired brother (not because he'd one day inherit Tracy Aerospace… because he didn't _want_ to). "Very few CEOs get a chance to pilot something like Thunderbird 1. They have other concerns."

True enough; and it made Scott feel considerably better to be reminded that "billionaire playboy" and "heir apparent" were media labels, not life-sentencing facts.

"John," he said, as the lift reached their floor, "I know business isn't your thing… but, thinking about the future, here… when I'm in charge of Tracy-A, would you be interested in a job?"

The elevator chimed at them. Its polished brass doors swished open, allowing the two young men to step forth.

"I dunno…" John temporized, ignoring Alan (who was hanging out the game room door, just about frothing with impatience).

"…You think I can handle it?"

Scott had the sudden weird feeling that his brother was joking around, but if so, he didn't get the punch line. Then again, how often did John's offbeat sense of humor actually connect?

"I'd help out until you felt confident enough to make some business decisions of your own, and we could share running International Rescue," he offered. "Deal?"

"Deal," John decided after a bit, shaking his brother's hand.

Alan was all but clawing the walls and chewing furniture by the time they wandered into lab 4B.

"Dudes!" he raged, his mounting impatience utterly snuffing Alan's already frail coolness quotient. "Hurry _up!_ This is one of those, like, critical junctions and stuff! We're talking life, death and vital dice rolls, here!"

Their youngest brother was nearly incandescent, but Scott and John didn't rush. After all… they had lives to plan, and the RPG was only a game.


	49. 49: Rising Tide

Edited for better flow. No pun int... okay, well, sort of pun intended. Thanks for your reviews, Tikatu, Panoply and ED.

**49: Rising Tide**

_The RPG, in the growing light of day-_

With the sun came clarity, and a gradual lifting of spells. All at once Gawain, Frodle, Allat and Glud saw the landscape for what it was, perceiving cliff-side ruins and the mighty stone legs of broken statues out in a wild, rolling sea. A city of elves had stood here once, twin to the one below water. Once, but no more.

Glud sensed the creature first, hackles rising and muscles bunching huge beneath his scarred, warty hide. Mouth open wide, the half-orc roared an air-shuddering bellow of challenge. From cliff to statue to ocean it bounced, splitting the morning like thunder.

At the same time, Sir Gawain dropped another big stone upon the sailors' grave marker, gazing beyond it to pounding grey water and ancient stone piers. Nothing else. Slowly, Gawain straightened. Looking outward, the realization hit him that there _was_ no shipwreck; that he'd been deceived to provide cover for something truly foul. His scraped and bruised hands clenched into fists at Gawain's sides. All night he'd labored to recover and bury driftwood, while something darkly _other_ gathered strength to attack. Glud's roar went on and on. The creature drew his weapon and charged down the shore, and all at once Sir Gawain felt something else, as well; the sudden, hot blood-splash of mortal danger to a friend. Rage flared, and with it came power.

A mile or so north, the scholar's camp was prepared, his fire-ring and wind-blocks erected. St. George lifted his head and snuffed the air. Then, just as those webs of foolish contentment drifted from Frodle's mind, the white horse laid back its ears and reared up, bugling like a young dragon. Faintly, they heard Glud's bellowing, a sound of the worst portent. The halfling reached for his staff and began a spell of far-seeing. What he learned choked his next muttered spell in mid-syllable.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Far beneath and away, but watching-_

_"It begins, my brother,"_ said one to the next and lesser. _"Behold the downfall of pride and resistance."_

Together, they drew near the portal, delighting in battle and bloodshed to come.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Male Elf had shifted the girl-child behind him, for all the pitiful good that would do. The creature sprouted crab's legs through huge, swollen boils on its flanks, and now it surged toward shore even faster; rasping, lurching and scuttling. Having slept long ages, it was barnacled like a very old whale. But the monster had been waked again, and its rising-magma heat popped open and shriveled this coating of sharp-edged mollusks.

Male Elf attempted an ice bolt, but the creature simply absorbed his magic and fattened upon it. It stalked them like a vampire, blind and questing, hungry for more. The elf could perform no white magicks, and the sort of force that _could_ drive it off, the power to command such monsters, was locked away within him. He was a red mage now, and not a very strong one… but the she-elf refused to see this.

Something had touched him, though; one end of a long transport spell. At the other side, Frodle stood ready to come through himself, or pull forth a passenger. Well, the halfling was about to get what he wanted, sort of. As soon as his key-word opened the transport tube, Male Elf yanked loose the human girl's grip and shoved her on through.

"Traitor!" screamed the frantic daughter of Llyr and Carina. Drawing her dagger, she slashed at Male Elf and the escaping girl, laying open his shoulder and the child's tear-wetted face.

He pivoted in mid-shove. Lifting one arm to block her next strike, Male Elf took a deep gash to his forearm. Blood showered the stones and in-rushing water, and now the creature had a fresh trail to follow. A storm of fanged heads shot toward them like serpents.

Male Elf stumbled backward, pulling the scout captain along with him. She did not come willingly.

"Demon! Return to your pet!"

She was desperate beyond reason, struggling too hard to listen, so he tore away her dagger and flung it into the water. Her men ran forward, hurling their spears. Most he was able to dodge, turning to let them hiss past. A few drew blood, but not enough to fell him.

"Stand away!" she screamed at her troop, all the while writhing in his grip like a captured Nereid.

"Fear nothing for me, but keep this vermin from esc… _uh!"_

Ordinarily, Male Elf did not strike women. Ordinarily, he wasn't raining blood, trapped on a ribbon of beach between angry sea folk and a fever-dream monster, either. He backhanded the sea elf, and a sudden mark flared vivid purple against her pearl-white face and matted gold hair. Not nice, but extremely effective, for the shrieking stopped at once.

Sniffing blood, gulping its vapors from the boiling sea, the beast drew nearer. Male Elf retreated, hauling the daughter of Llyr and Carina protectively close as he did so.

"I wasn't going to leave!" he shouted, over roaring wind and crashing waves, "But the girl needed…"

Another transport spell pushed at his mind before Male Elf could finish speaking, this one surging with a landslide's worth of raw power. Gawain.

"Come through," said the dark elf, opening his friend's way. "_And_ you," for Frodle was trying again. Nor were they all that came.

Out to sea, a horde of elven warriors broke surface, mounted on creatures scaled like fish and maned in white spindrift. On shore, thousands of scuttling beach imps materialized from the weeds and shells and stones. Armed with bits of wood and determination they were; easy to crush, but endlessly renewed.

The she-elf's men defied orders to come to her rescue, for by now the creature had lurched dangerously near. Rough hands pulled the scout captain away from Male Elf, while others shoved him at that blind-searching nightmare. Dozens of heads lashed out on their long necks, fanged mouths dilated and quivering. Then, Frodle leapt through his spell door, just as the fighting commenced.

Thinking quickly, the scholar raced to his friend and spelled up a shield. Gaping mouths smashed hard against it and began to push inward. Some of the scouts had retreated, but most stood firm, hurling daggers, spears and watery spells. All to no purpose. Fully half of the creature's heads whipped around to strike at the elves and their captain. Male Elf reacted instinctively, dodging a whirlwind of snapping fangs to reach through the shield and retrieve her.

Another portal opened, this one bringing Glud, and something barely recognizable as Sir Gawain; all at once gone too bright to look upon without getting the spiritual equivalent of a sunburn. As the monster attacked Frodle's shield, pushing within a few feet of its trapped inmates, the halfling began a banishment charm, and Male elf attempted to draw one of his swords. The she-elf had magicked them fast, though, and they could not be freed without using a dark spell that would feed their attacker. Nor would his knife leave its sheathe.

He shoved the scout captain to the ground and then reached through the shield to snatch up a dropped spear. Using the unaccustomed weapon, he thrust into burning flesh, warping the spearhead but driving the creature off just a little.

Water shrieked into steam about its submerged parts, which the newly-come elves attacked from all sides. Glud severed heads and ducked striking mouths to slash at an oozing flank, though the heat seared him near hairless. Scores of beach-imps stabbed at its jointed legs and barnacle-ports, getting crushed for their trouble.

That which was no longer quite Gawain flared blindingly bright, channeling power like the sun's. Bolt after bolt of wordless raw force shot away from him, each strike petrifying a spot of the monster's dark flesh.

"It's a sending," Frodle called to his spear-wielding fellow inmate, "from those deep below!"

"Wonderful," grunted Male Elf, fighting to wrest his weapon from a puckered and dribbling head. "So, send it right back to them. On their laps, preferably!"

Frodle jabbed at the monster with his singed and smoking staff.

"I'm trying, friend elf, but the… _uh_ …magicks which… _urf …_bind it to this plane are… _very_ strong!"

Demonically strong. Beset from sea and shore, the blind monstrosity turned its attention to the worst of these threats, a steadily brightening paladin. The creature could sense him, and it feared. There was no retreat but death, however, and no way forward but through that cringingly sensed light. It lunged for the Cross-Knight, one crab's leg smashing down through the fragile shield-bubble as it went.

Burnt clean now of personality and emotion, Gawain formed and hurled a web of gleaming magic. The web expanded as it flew, snapping down upon the struggling beast and trapping most of its blood-thirsty heads. Not done, though. Not even when St. George charged up, racing along the shore at better than horse-speed, did Sir Gawain break concentration. Instead, he readied himself to serve as a gate.

Frodle and Male Elf had dodged in two directions. A bit of the elf's cloak was caught and pinned by that chitinous, descending leg, dragging him stunned to the rocky ground. Frodle was too preoccupied with spell-casting to notice, but the scout captain did. She dashed back toward Male Elf and jerked loose his cloak, defying wounds and misjudgment to help him scramble free.

Very much distracted, Frodle wove chants of power, sapping at the bonds that held the beast to Midworld. Allat had meanwhile taken a flying form, and he dove at the thing from above. (Once or twice, anyhow. Mostly, the thief just circled overhead, dropping rocks and shells.) Several feet away, Glud roared an orcish battle song, quarrying great slabs of dark flesh with each sword-strike. He was much too excited to fear his own death, or even believe in it.

Male Elf had lost another spear skewering a tooth-ringed mouth. The monster was weaker, now, beset from all sides, so he risked a spell to summon new weapons. And this time, his magic succeeded. Spears arced to his hand from the loosened grip of the fallen. One he kept. The other he passed to the bold daughter of Llyr and Carina. She nodded her thanks, but said nothing at all to Male Elf. To the bloodied spear, she whispered,

"May you avenge well the one who wielded you last."

She stood with him, though, and they fought there together; one in skill and in mind, defending young Frodle with those of her men able to rally about their captain. In the boiling ocean, mounted elves harried the creature's whipping long tail and great haunches. Beach-imps sawed at its feet. A little, they hurt it. But mostly, they just died.

Gawain finally ceased preparing and he lifted a hand, palm outward. Then, in a voice not his own, the knight commanded,

"Leave this place!"

The beast writhed and glowed hotter in response. It seemed to flatten, changing orientation to them all like a picture drawn on vellum. Shrinking and fluttering, its crab-legs and heads jerking spasmodically, the monster just… shriveled, leaving behind it a deeply scarred seashore. The day was won, but there were too many wounded and dying survivors littering the water and strand for celebration. The sea folk and imps began keening, instead, while riderless water-horses screamed and plunged, driven mad by burns or the loss of a master.

But Gawain possessed yet some power. Striding to the bloodied ocean, he waded in to his knees, then expelled the remaining white magic, whispering,

"Be healed."

A mighty flash blocked sound, sight and (most of all) pain. For the dead, there was nothing to be done, but those still alive were mended entirely, healed without scar or sorrow, horses and imps included. Gawain sat down at once, far too drained to stand. He'd be slow-witted for the next few days, but his companions were used to this, and they knew what to do.

Male Elf turned to look at the scout captain, whose flesh and heart had healed clean. Her spear was between them, and so was a trace of mistrust. He was, after all, a dark elf. The captain glanced at him and then at her people, who'd left off mourning to gather their dead. Not a word passed between them, but her hand brushed his arm once, fingers trailing along his bow-guard and the back of one wrist. Then she left him, and returned to her own kind.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Below, in darkness and anger-_

Said a tall, hooded phantom to the essence of battle and nightmare,

_"Thrice have we failed."_

But his well-fed companion replied,

_"Have patience. There are six moves remaining, and the game is not yet done."_

Besides which, there were other worlds and alternate routes through which to attack a mere mortal.


	50. 50: In and Out of Character

**50: In and Out of Character**

_Tracy Island, Lab 4B, around the cluttered gaming table-_

Alan required a break to (as he put it) "gas up the ol' physics engine," so his players got a moment to sit back, compile and drink beer. _Plenty_ of beer (root, in Fermat's case, some kind of lemonade-gin British concoction, in Gordon's). And, considering that they were all still reeling from Alan's _last_ game scenario, a little rest was a very good thing.

Scott set his longneck back down with a decisively sharp thump, indicated Gordon and asked,

"So… just how _'slow-witted'_ are we talking, here?"

It was John who answered him, because Gordon and Fermat were too busy plotting against their absent dungeon master to listen.

"Coloring books and one-syllable words, for about the next two days," the astronaut told him, shrugging resignedly. "Happens every time."

"But he'll get back to normal again?" Scott persisted, a little anxious over just letting their group leader circle the IQ drain, like that.

"Yeah, eventually. Best thing to do is just sit tight and let him sleep it off. Don't think that's going to be an option with Freddy-damn-Krueger running things, though."

Laughing, Scott drained the last of his beer, then reached over and cuffed his skinny blond brother, who was just relaxed enough not to quite dodge.

"Let me guess," the fighter pilot said to him, "we're about to be slimed to death by man-eating, radioactive snails."

John shook his head, fatalistic as a Prozac-deprived oracle.

"You'll find out," he said.

Changing the subject and grabbing a fresh bottle, Scott mused,

"Lady Penelope's due in tomorrow."

To which John merely shrugged.

"And…?"

"I don't know. Just thought it might loosen dad up a little… maybe give me a chance to ask about taking some time off in San Francisco. You know the classic cure for stress, little brother: more sex and better vacations."

Maybe it was the Coors, or possibly he was just in a free-associating kind of mood, but Scott leaned way back in his seat… one hand cupped protectively around his best friend the beer bottle, the other rubbing at the back of his own neck… and asked,

"Think she'll make a better ex- Mrs. Tracy than Gen did? Penny, I mean?"

It was an innocent enough question, just speculation, really; but John turned to give him one of those rare, very direct _"what the __hell__ are you talking about?" _looks. The kind that made him feel about three years old and still in diapers.

"I think she'll do what she wants to do," John told him, in a very quiet and icy, end-of-subject voice.

For just a second or two, recalling Penny's behavior aboard Thunderbird 1, Scott began to wonder if maybe… But, no. That idea was too stupid for words. John…? And _Penelope…? _Riiight. His brother hadn't had a serious relationship since what's-her-name, back in college, and was probably a lot better acquainted with CGI hotties than the real thing. Seriously, when did he have the time?

Scott might have asked about that; about whether there were any female astronauts back at the Swamp or IMS who raised the ol' cabin pressure… But Alan walked into the room just then, snickering at his own plans. He had a _"boy, are you guys in trouble" _expression on his face. Made Scott long to seize the homicidal young dungeon master and practice a little origami on him. Properly folded up, Alan would make a damn fine lucky crane, the pilot thought.

"Okey-doke, ladies," Alan called out, signaling everyone back into character, "It's time for round two. I'd tell you to get ready, but it wouldn't do any good, 'cause the goddess of no-way-in-heck dice rolls isn't coming to the rescue _this_ time. No more last minute wyverns or miracle-saves."

Gordon glanced over at Fermat. The young boy grinned slyly, and then looked away, obviously privy to some DM-busting secret coup attempt. Lounging beside him, the swimmer managed to keep a straight face, but not very well. Pretty clearly, something was going on.

An instantly suspicious Alan gave them all the mean, hairy eyeball. Then he stalked over to his seat, thumped down and grabbed the dice, saying,

"Whatever it is, _don't._ Because, A: it won't work and, 2: I won't let you. Got it?"

Gordon could do a fair job of appearing innocent when the notion took him. Well, _rather_ innocent.

"Sorry, mate," he said to his scowling brother. "Haven't a clue what y'r on about."

"Yeah, dude… sure thing. Just remember you said that, when Sir G ends up in traction, with a team of romance-starved orc nurses providing his daily sponge bath!"

But the red-head's smile held perfectly steady.

"Long as they mind th' tender bits," he joked sweetly, further irritating Alan.

_Uh-huh, sure, _the dungeon master said to himself, setting up his screen and papers. _I got you, bro… I got you._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_En route to Tracy Island, from the estate of Sir Hugh Walsingham, in Scotland-_

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward did her best to relax in the passenger cabin of her private jet. Rather a difficult matter, as she'd just come off playing a certain role for dear old Hugh (Britain's WorldGov representative) and now had yet another complex mask to don, this time for Jeff Tracy. Information to deliver, as well… but cautiously, and with much deliberation.

Penelope had several employers, whose various needs and demands had the occasional, regrettable tendency to clash. Such was the case, now. Yes, the World Government had once again placed acquisition of International Rescue very high upon their eyes-only docket. They also wished exploitable information about Stavros Valianatos, James Springfield and Jeff Tracy. In certain of her guises, Penny helped to provide this information (though, in dear Jeff's case, never quite enough to hand WorldGov genuine leverage).

Now she was expected to report these findings about the World Government to her contacts at International Rescue, while keeping the interested parties unaware of her double involvement. Triple, actually, if you counted the odd bit of assassin's work that came her way. Add to this stringing Jeff along whilst secretly meeting with his son, John, and her poor head was simply _throbbing._

Penny leaned backward in her leather seat, closed her blue eyes and rubbed at both temples, head back and striving for peace. The jet's constant vibration and comforting whine lured her toward sleep, but the tired young noblewoman had bits of speech to rehearse and a rendezvous to plan. John (damn him, anyhow, for not ever troubling to call) would be utterly stand-offish until reminded that her behavior with Jeff meant nothing. That… just like Hugh and Eduardo… and eventually this Valianatos… Jeff Tracy was little more than a diverting assignment.

For a moment, Her Ladyship allowed herself the gentle indulgence of a daydream. She imagined that she and John were off on holiday… to Corfu, or Malta, perhaps; away, at any rate, able to hold hands in public and even to kiss there. She visualised using her name and his, without concern, whilst engaging a villa at the magnificent Paleokatritsa. Waking up together and staying that way… ordering room service, paddling about in turquoise water and being very, very much in love. Stupid, really, and ridiculously unattainable, for Penny had roles to play and John loved no one at all but himself.

Tears slid from the corners of her tightly shut eyes, made their way past her still-rubbing fingers, over her ears and into Penny's up-swept blonde hair. Life was a perfect mess. You did your bit, muddled along as bravely as possible, and then settled up at the end by losing bloody well _everything._

_Very well, then,_ Penelope decided, all at once gone terribly fierce, _Let us have something foolish and lovely to pay through eternity for. Something grand._

"Parker," she said aloud, her voice as genteel and steady as though ordering tea.

_"Yes, Milady?"_ Her driver responded from the cockpit.

"Ring up the Villa Sandra, in Corfu, and make a week's reservation for two, if you please. Engage it for… let us say a month hence."

_"Yes, Milady. And which names shall I provide?"_

Rather giddily, she replied,

"John… and Penelope… _Matthews._ Mr. and Mrs. John and Penelope Matthews."

_"Very good, Milady. Will there be anythin' else?"_

She kept her eyes closed, focusing past engine noise and filtered air to that longed-for azure water and diamond-bright sun. Past that, even, to five days and four nights with a borrowed husband and a stolen name. Heaven itself, even if she had to sneak and lie to gain entrance.

"Thank you, Parker. That will be all."


	51. 51: Tinkering

Little bit more... Thanks, ED and Panoply.

**51: Tinkering**

_The RPG, late afternoon, by the shore of a northern sea-_

Because he had nothing better to do (being, for the moment, unwanted) Male Elf worked out their location. Walking along the sky road was not at all like traversing the landscape; everything looked different when viewed from above, and didn't quite match his ancestral lore. Lent new meaning to the phrase _"as the crow flies",_ certainly. But he took as his first clue the twin elven cities, one below water, the other a cliff-side ruin. These were distinct and easy to place.

His former people had a name for both of them, neither of which he would pronounce aloud. Not here, anyway. Not if he wanted to keep a whole throat and an un-punctured hide.

In the common language, from better times, they'd been called Elrethe and Fialle, but those were human names. The sea folk kept their own counsel, and a wise former drow kept well out of sight, because he wasn't at all welcome here. For his help in the battle, Male Elf hadn't yet been hunted down and killed, but pushing the issue by showing himself (or camping amid the ruins) would change all that in a quick damn hurry.

At any rate, they'd stopped by a pair of twin cities, on the shore of a great northern sea, perhaps sixty miles from Meretown, as the crow flies. Possibly fifty. Frodle was nowhere nearby, and it had been quite awhile since Male Elf bothered consulting a map of the surface.

He'd placed himself well away from the mourning sea elves, in a shallow alcove of rock beside his waterfall and cleansing pool. Force of habit, mostly; the light didn't trouble him _that_ much, and his new campsite seemed fairly secure. The horses munched, swished and rustled contentedly nearby, freed of harness and turned loose to graze. They were happy, and their steadiness helped him, but Male Elf was plagued with questions that guessing his whereabouts and grooming the horses couldn't resolve.

That concealment spell and monstrous sending had been extremely powerful magic, to start with; no ordinary sorcerer could have conjured such a beast and then kept it hidden, with an illusory shipwreck thrown in for good measure. And what of the girl-child? If there was no smashed ship, no drowned crew, where had his silent companion come from?

Male Elf turned his head to examine the girl, who sat beside him with both arms wrapped tightly about her up-drawn knees. Beyond that strange, listless quiet, there seemed nothing unusual about her. To his senses she looked and smelt like a young human female, not yet of breeding age. They'd replaced her thin clothing with a spare robe of Frodle's, but her feet were still bare and a good three inches of pale ankle showed below the hem of her new garment.

As to behavior, she ate nothing unless it was placed in her hand, responded to no questions and provided neither name, nor history. Faced with a monster, she'd cried a bit and clung to him, but afterward, not at all. Wet through when they found her, she was; cold but uninjured, and with no obvious means of arrival. The sea folk hadn't known her, and there weren't any human towns close enough to wander away from. So, this left him with… what? A weirdly empty and unexplained girl. Not menacing, but remote.

Male Elf shifted upon his mossy seat and reached into a belt pouch, in the process brushing the one that held his broken arm-ring. He had no sweets on him, or playthings, either. Just a few cakes of flat way-bread, wrapped in freshness-spelled muslin. Wishing there was milk to break it into, or a bit of fruit for sweetening, he unwrapped the cake and held it out, saying,

"Here. It isn't much, but I'm told you get used to the taste. Eventually."

He had to push the food into her hands before she seemed to notice it. Then, very slowly, the girl began to eat. Not as if hungry, but lost; dark-dreaming-lonely-afraid.

"You need a name," he said to her, rising to fetch water from the cataract pool. "Think of something, or I will… and I'm not very good at it."

Her head moved a little, as if very faintly she'd heard him, but that was all. Male Elf waited a moment, then took a cup from his pack and went out for more water. Two steps brought him out of the "cave" and into full day-shine, over which he didn't exactly stumble, but slowed. Light didn't sting anymore. It held a quick, bracing shock, like a face-full of sudden cold water.

…And his new existence was worth it. Worth everything lost and everyone abandoned, below.

Male Elf picked his way past nodding silvery ferns and wet-smelling rocks, attending carefully to the cascading ribbon of white, noisy water which leapt from the cliffs above. It pushed at his hair and garments with chilling-damp gusts, but its spirit was a good one; kindly and welcoming, even to such as he.

Allat fluttered from the sky just as Male Elf stooped to capture a cupful of water. Nice. The shape-changer had probably meant to seem noble, but there was more partly-plucked-fowl-mixed –with-dead-cat about him, than griffin. Then, too, Allat nearly shoved Male Elf into the pool for another cleansing when he tried to brake against his startled friend's shoulder. Luckily, there were branches to grab.

"Dinner," Male Elf announced aloud, pretending not to recognize Allat. Swinging himself upright, he leapt to a higher rock and seized the bird-cat's long neck. Allat made a few indignant choking sounds before Male Elf let him go (also turned into something uncomfortably spiny, which the dark elf affected not to notice). All in good fun, and no harm done to either side. Once the thief had taken his usual form, Male Elf asked him,

"What's the news from Gawain?"

At this, Allat popped eyeballs all over himself, just so he could roll them disgustedly.

"Playing _'I Spy'_ with Glud… and losing. Even with hints!"

The elf smiled a little.

"It'll pass," he said. Then, "What of Frodle? Has he convinced the sea people that we had nothing more to do with their storm and monster than bad timing?"

Gradually reabsorbing blue eyeballs that way, Allat looked especially pensive.

"I don't know about that, Lord-Nameless, ol' buddy… Personally, I've got a weird feeling that we didn't just accidentally blunder into all this. I think the creature was sent because somebody knew we'd hit ground here, and they wanted to make an impression. One that would pull in the locals, if you get my meaning. But, yeah… Frodle's smoothing the sea-Ps over, big time."

They started back up and away from the water, still talking.

"What about you and the chatterbox?" Allat inquired, his face morphing subtly to resemble the girl's. "Everything good over here?"

_Sure_.

Male Elf shrugged. Turning away from Allat, he paused to give St. George, Grayling and Dapple a fond pat each, getting soft whickers of recognition and horse-breath blown in his face, in return.

"Well," said the thief, who was now mostly human except for a few extra legs, "you're not missing much, let me tell you. When big, important people get together to make colossal decisions, they're boring as porridge and side-meat. On the whole, I'd rather be here."

The horses' ears twitched and their tails remained busy. Otherwise (standing side by side facing opposite directions) they returned to their enthusiastic grazing. Male Elf tugged a few burrs from Grayling's long tail, but he listened and even nodded. Allat behaved most times like a complete and utter fool, yet there was a streak of real wisdom and insight there, and sometimes the creature allowed it to show.

"Thanks," the dark elf told him, obscurely comforted. "I was pining away for flowery speeches and diplomacy."

Back at the shallow cliff-cave, the girl had finished what she wanted of his way-bread and allowed the rest to drop to the ground. Otherwise, the lass had moved not at all.

"Well," Male Elf called out to her, when he and Allat ducked within, "any ideas? Because otherwise, you're stuck with Aeralyn. That's "girl" in the language of halflings."

She made a very slight motion, as though listening to a distant echo, but didn't speak a word in reply. Meanwhile, Allat switched forms in rapid succession, studying the girl with varying eyes and antennae, focusing oddly plumed appendages at her. Vexed, he uttered a short keyword and popped back to "normal", saying,

"Weirdness piled on top of really, crazy strange. There's magic, but it's _in_ her, not laid there by spells."

"So, no enchantment or bindings?"

Allat shook his head, clearly baffled.

"Not that I can sense, no."

_Damn._

Male Elf positioned the water cup in her line of sight. Then he helped the girl's wandering, fluttering hands to reach for it. As he guided her drink and then dabbed at her mouth with an edge of his cloak, the elf thought hard.

If someone existed physically in Midworld, but their mind was elsewhere… perhaps they would seem like Aeralyn; remote, helpless and confused. Her hand pawed out. After the cup, he thought, but she felt it when offered, and thrust it aside. The raveling edge of his cloak she took and clung to instead, like a talisman or a lifeline.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

That night, once the party was gathered and the bulk of their camp shifted to the waterfall, Male Elf approached Sir Gawain. The Cross-Knight was better than he had been, but still rather slow and quite trusting. With their foundling in tow, Male Elf took a seat upon the ground beside his friend, who was cleaning weapons by the fire pit.

A swift glance around proved that no one else was watching. Frodle was too busy shrinking and spell-preserving great piles of seal and fish to notice the elf's activity. Glud was standing watch some distance away, while Allat lay already curled up asleep atop Dapple. So,

"Gawain," he began very quietly. "Could I talk with you?"

The red-haired knight glanced up from his energetic blade-polishing. Just as well. Glud's serrated belt knife was the object of his efforts, and no amount of oil was going to shine _that._

"Master Elf," he said, genuinely pleased to see the drow. "Are you well?"

The elf shifted position.

"On the whole, yes… but I'd like to show you something, if I might."

"Surely. Say on."

At once, the rag and knife were set aside, and the knight's attention became as brightly focused as an eager dog's. Not at all fair, but the best time to try, so Male Elf pulled a handful of copper bits from one of his belt pouches and held them forth, palm up.

Sir Gawain's eyebrows lifted. Stirring the fragments about with an extended forefinger, he said,

"Tis broken."

Hardly breathing, Male Elf nodded. Just now, he felt like something very dark and stealthy… but he also refused to turn back.

"Irreparably?" he asked.

Gawain's head cocked to one side. It was no exaggeration to say that at the moment, his extreme innocence and power made him more dangerous than Glud, and several times as strong.

"No," the knight decided. "Not irrep… irri… That is, I can mend it."

Big words were a problem for him at times like this, as were complex people and hidden motives.

"Would you?" the elf asked, keeping his voice deliberately calm and quiet.

"Aye. Of course."

Sir Gawain extended his hand and placed it over Male Elf's, as though to seal a bargain. There were no keywords or sigils, no potions or powders. Just the good will and purpose of an utterly cleansed knight. Without further preamble, bright, shifting warmth leaked from between their clasped hands, and all at once, Male Elf could feel something moving against his palm.

More than that, the last faint gleam of the she-elf's disarming spell coalesced like a violet mist and then poured into Gawain's flickering repair-magic. After a heartbeat or so, Sir Gawain released his grip to reveal a bright copper arm-ring, like a serpent with small violet jewels for its eyes. Delicate as a grass-snake, she raised a triangular head and regarded them, testing the air with fast little flicks of a crystal tongue. Then she seemed to melt, passing into his palm and back to her place at his wrist; just a strange, metallic image.

Gawain had already resumed polishing, but Male Elf thanked him, anyhow.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"That is _so_ cheating!" Alan snapped, getting up from his chair. "Frodle should have heard something and interrupted!"

But Fermat just smiled and gave him a helpless little shrug.

"S- Sorry about that… Alan," the bespectacled young boy apologized. "I w- was so busy preserving… food for the t- trip, I guess I just d- didn't notice."

"Baloney! You planned this! Both of you!"

Gordon looked as smug as an _I-just-got-away-with-it_, milk-stealing cat.

"Fancy that," the swimmer teased, folding both arms across his broad chest, "seems there are a few things that our all knowin' dungeon master can't control."

Alan pivoted to glare next at John, who'd levered his six-four frame out of the chair in slow, lanky stages. Like Gordon, Scott and Fermat, he didn't even look _sorry_.

"Leave me out of this," said the astronaut, laughing quietly. "All _I_ wanted to do was fix a damn bracelet; not my fault if someone else decided to jump in."

…But it looked like they might get some extra help, after all, from a last-minute wyvern still very much in the game. Walking out of the room with Scott, expecting Penny back sometime tomorrow, John was nearly optimistic enough to bet on a phone call from Houston.

_Prime crew,_ he thought to himself… and to whatever else might be listening… _make it prime crew._


	52. 52: Test Match

**52: Test Match**

_Tracy Island, on a slowly clearing (and very frantic) afternoon-_

The next day could hardly be said to have dawned; poured cats, dogs, tigers and wolves, was rather more like it. On the bright side, all of that drumming, sloshing water put paid to the ash, clearing atmosphere and foliage alike. On the other hand, it also made a perfect morass of Tracy Island, creating a dense grey mud which threatened to set like concrete, once the sun broke through.

Dr. Hackenbacker dispatched all of the maintenance robots to scoop and dispose of mud just as soon as the deluge began to ease, forcing John to find alternate means to get his own immense workload accomplished. Gordon was at loose ends, meanwhile, having quite simply nothing whatever to do. The sea hangars were already clear, and he'd spent more time in the weight room than was probably wise (pay for it later, he would, with pitiful stiffness and burning pain). As to swimming, the pools could not yet be used (for which Scott had twice apologized) while the ocean remained dangerously wild. He'd taken oath to keep up his practice schedule, though, and Coach McMahon would not miss (nor forgive) any lapses, no matter what their cause. Gordon knew just how he'd react to excuses…

_"Ash? Volcanoes? That's what y' bloody well get f'r muckin' about th' Pacific, y' thumpin' great moron! Not much of a problem in effin' Spain, are they?"_

"He's going t' kill me," Gordon muttered distractedly, as he wandered the mansion in search of John. "No… he'll have me publicly flayed as an example t' th' rest. _Then_, he'll kill me."

He could even visualize his poor, weed-choked headstone: _Gordon David Tracy 2050-2067. 'Lazy blighter never moved his arse unless threatened with flame'._ Mourners would be asked to leave alarm clocks rather than flowers, and to donate funds to the home for under-motivated athletes.

Thinking along these awful lines, Gordon searched high and low for John, finally locating his older sibling down at the base of Thunderbird 3's launch tube. He had tools spread on the floor all about him, and a notable lack of robotic assistance. Not good, any of this, but Gordon careened wildly down the maintenance ladder anyhow, calling,

"John…! Terribly sorry t' trouble you…"

He stumbled on hitting the concrete floor, righted himself, and then hurried to the astronaut's side.

"…But y'r wrist comm won't respond, and y'r ID chip seems not t' be transmittin', either. So… here I am."

John glanced up from the open, gutted panel he was working on.

"Yeah," he said shortly, returning to work. "Here you are."

Gordon paused long enough to catch his breath and to wait for some sort of conversational opening. When John continued to silently fool about with the wiring, his younger brother caught up a random selection of tools and positioned himself within easy reach. Holding them forth, as it were. Got a reaction, eventually, though not a very positive one.

"Annnd… you're _still_ here."

John closed his eyes, briefly, then opened them again. He was a full head and a half taller than the worried young athlete, but much slighter in build. Also, quite evidently, in something of a tearing hurry. Not quite looking at the swimmer, he muttered,

"Ten seconds or less, Gordon, and the clock is ticking. How can I help you?"

"The pools," his brother replied very quickly. "Have you any notion at all when they might be repaired well enough f'r use?"

John set down his circuit tester and multi-tool. Still facing the open service panel, he said,

"I'm currently on item 357 of an 800-procedure checklist. Care to guess where the damn pools fall on that list?"

Gordon's broad shoulders slumped just a bit.

"Flat last?" he hazarded.

Turning slightly, John looked at him for the first time. But you see… and the swimmer was betting rather heavily on this… Just like Scott and TinTin, Gordon tended to get special consideration from John, who now said,

"No. Repair and refill of the upper and lower pools are items 650 and 651, respectively." Taking up the circuit tester again, in a lower voice he added, "I'm getting there, Gordon. It's just… there's a hell of a lot of work ahead."

"Right. Sorry."

The swimmer all at once felt smallish and pushy. To make amends, he said,

"Anythin' I might do t' help?"

John made eye contact, briefly. But Gordon wasn't sure whether or not this was a good sign.

"Do you actually mean it, or is this one of those small-talk, get-along things, like:_ Hi, how are you?"_

"Well…"

Gordon considered the matter. Then, he decided, "Yes, actually, I do mean it. If there's anythin' t' be done, I should very much like to assist you."

John cocked a blond eyebrow (one of his very few expressions).

"Okay," he said, reaching back into the service panel. "Tell you what; if you're in the mood for a flight, head over to the nearest large land mass… I suggest Australia… and fetch me back five or six frozen pizzas. Cheese. Keep the receipt and I'll pay you triple, plus flight time, fuel and engine maintenance. How's that?"

Gordon straightened to attention, and then snapped off a perfect, palm-out salute. Barely suppressing a grin, he said,

"Understood, sir. I'm off at once t' storm Australia and reclaim the Ashes… _and_ your pizza."

He then darted off and back up the ladder, pleased to have a mission, if not quite a means to swim laps. Others soon learned of his errand, and before Gordon took off that evening (with Alan and TinTin along for a lark) he'd amassed quite a sizeable marketing list.

Jeff requested a box of Montecristo luxury cigars, while Scott craved a packet of teriyaki-flavoured jerky. Virgil put in an order for cigarettes and chocolate ice-cream, and Brains for roasted cashews. Fermat would have liked to come along, but his father preferred to keep the boy near, so Gordon simply jotted down Fermat's wistful potato-crisp and Pocky requisition. Gennine thanked him for asking, thought a bit, and then ordered another notebook. Green, preferably. Of course, TinTin and Alan had goals of their own; mostly soft-drinks and sweets in Alan's case, a gift for her father and the latest issue of New Scientist, in TinTin's.

For himself, Gordon intended to purchase as much black-currant and orange squash as he could well carry. He'd have listed something for Grandmother, too, but when asked what she wanted, the fierce-eyed old woman simply patted his arm and said,

"Ain't nuthin' I need 'cept you three back safe, Gordon David. Keep a sharp eye up there, and don't do nuthin' I wouldn't do."

Gordon bent down quickly to kiss her forehead. While she was yet off her guard, he grinned very cheekily and said,

"Brilliant! I've leave t' do just as I like, then! Most likely have t' be carried home."

Laughing, he darted out of her reach and was headed for the sunroom door, when a spin-bowled cushion struck him bang on the shoulder. Bit of a tartar, Victoria Tracy, and _never_ safe to turn one's back upon.

One way or another, though, he, Alan and TinTin took off for Darwin at 6:15 PM, just half an hour before Lady Penelope returned to Tracy Island.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Later that night-_

There was a great deal stirring around inside him, but it made no sense, so he mostly ignored it all. Penny _had_ shown up, doing and saying the usual social-empty, hard-to-figure-out things. Mostly with his father.

Maybe that… _Whatever_. As he'd told Scott the night before, she'd do what she wanted to. But, maybe that was…

Anyway, he kept busy (not like there wasn't plenty to do) and ate dinner down in Thunderbird 2's hangar, but not alone. He had the surprise company of Alan's mom, who brought him a plate of macaroni-and-cheese his grandmother had fixed (plus one for herself). They ate at a work bench, once John cleared it off and found Gennine something to sit on.

She read her latest chapter aloud while he spooned up creamy, bright-orange pasta. Only, John wasn't much of an expert on romance; he couldn't really say whether Trace Savage ought to have kidnapped the sultan's daughter or not. Except… thinking nominal determinism, here… with a name like "Savage", the guy was bound to pull _something_ stupid, right? Because people named Smith or Jones never end up disguised as palace guards, in love with a cloistered princess and running for their lives.

Anyhow, for some reason, Gennine hugged him once dinner was over. Said thank you, too. John watched her collect the bowls and utensils. Then, while helping Gennine to balance the stack atop her notebook, he told her,

"Um… I guess I was wrong, before."

She looked up at him, eyes a little wide. They were the same color as Alan's, and just as round.

"Wrong about what, sweetie?" she asked.

(And, for the record, he hated being called "sweetie". Usually.)

Before answering, John thought of some things. He thought of seeing her for the first time, all those years ago, with his father and a brand new, _replacement_ baby. Then he put that away. All of it.

"I dunno," John shrugged, adding a dropped spoon to the carefully piled utensils. "I was just wrong."

Mixed signals. Gennine first looked like she was about to cry, but then smiled at the same time. Didn't make much sense, but that was a female, for you.

"Well," she said, after clearing her throat. "Thank you for listening to my chapter, John… and especially for thinking things over."

…So that went okay. Feeling pretty satisfied, he got a lot more done after dinner, and even decided to push pool repair up a little to items 595-596. Weird/nice days have a way of intensifying, though, just like bad ones. John got another surprise when he went to his rooms for a shower and nap, because Penny had decided to bring back his shirt. In person.

…And maybe that was good.

Perched at the edge of his bed, she looked hopelessly lost in the long black tee-shirt, which didn't come close to fitting her.

"Hullo, darling," she whispered, rising to meet him with both hands extended. "Just thought I'd dash over and return what is yours… if, that is, you still want it?"

He did.


	53. 53: Voices

Kind of late, sorry. Edited, and thanks very kindly, ED, Tikatu and Panoply, for all your earlier reviews. I'm grateful for the input.

**53: Voices**

_Darwin, Australia-_

While dawn was yet considering, Gordon Tracy rose from his bed at the Holiday Inn Darwin, filled with purpose and (shortly thereafter) quite a few cinnamon-raisin power bars. They'd arrived in the night too late for serious marketing, so Gordon had rung up a cab from the airport and worked out with their driver which hotel would best suit.

"A pool," he'd insisted.

"Entertainment! We need night life n' junk!" demanded Alan, while all that TinTin asked was…

"And perhaps, monsieur, one with rooms that are not too dear?"

The lass hadn't much money, you see, though she insisted on paying her own way.

"Right," their cabbie decided; his dark eyes smile-crinkled in the rearview mirror. "That'll be the Holiday Inn, then. Darwin, that is, not Esplanade."

Gordon wouldn't have cared if they'd stayed under a ruddy bridge, so long as there were beds, some hope of breakfast, and a decent pool. He emerged from the W.C. in a quiet hurry, wearing precisely the same kit as the night before (which would certainly trouble TinTin, fast asleep in the adjoining room. Clothes shopping lay in his immediate future, Gordon was sure of it).

There were two beds in the blue-carpeted chamber. One of them was occupied by a still-slumbering Alan, who lay sprawled amid tangled sheets, clutching the telly remote like a much-loved toy. A hushed, shifting infomercial glow lit up his round face and mussed blond hair… and would no doubt leave Alan with a desperate yearning to purchase Cubic Zirconia, Better-than-Botox, or the Soy-Cube-SlizR, if allowed to keep pitching. Good heartedly, Gordon stole across the room and saved Alan's trust fund by switching channels to Sesame Street, or something local of the sort; puppets, dancing letters and song. Harmless, at any rate.

Their room featured at one end a sliding glass door and miniscule balcony, beyond which Gordon saw tree silhouettes striping a view of city and harbor lights, with closer-to, the slick, rippled surface of a greenish-blue pool. Eager to go, he gave TinTin a swift look-in (half turned away and squinting, just in case) and found all well with the lass, who slept like a baby, curled and cocooned in her bed-sheets.

Only then did Gordon leave their rooms, taking a long flight of steps to the lobby and pool, rather than the lift. He got more warm-up and muscle stretching, that way.

The outside air was quite pleasant, this being the Top End's dry season. Not much ash, either, for gentle winds had tended to blow the worst of it well away from Darwin. But, as it was early yet, Gordon had the pool to himself. He'd no goggles or fast-suit, only a pair of shorts, but _there_ was illuminated water and, here, his stiff, weight room-sore body. Duty beckoned, and in he went, making a shallow dive from the 3-metre end. The water was a wonderfully cold, wake-you-right-up shock, rushing past him in a swirl of bubbles and piped-in hotel music, silken as kisses.

He swam determinedly, ducking the deep-end cordon rope at each pass. Warm-up laps, free-style, backstroke, butterfly and breaststroke, with fast, savage wind sprints in between. Practiced his turns, too, with particular attention to a sloppy backstroke touch-and-flip. And all the while, the Kevin McMahon in his head drove Gordon every bit as hard as the real thing would have done, cursing and wind-milling like a red-faced mental case.

Full day arrived eventually, bringing with it a stirring city, golden sunlight and several curious lasses (one of which hid his belongings and wouldn't return them until she'd got a name and a room number). After all that, Gordon left the pool to a handful of tourists, trudging over to the deck-side restaurant for as much breakfast as they could prepare and deliver. TinTin and Alan found him there, later, still eating.

Dressed in something flower-bright and very becoming, TinTin kissed Gordon's cheek and slipped into a chair at his outdoor table.

"Mornin', Angel," he greeted her (while stabbing at Alan's toast-filching hand with a fork). "Slept well, I hope?"

"Most beautifully, Gordon, thank you."

Alan withdrew his injured hand, growling,

"Yeah, and me, too... thanks for asking!" But nobody listened, so off he went to fetch breakfast.

Wide-eyed, the lass looked round them at screeching lorikeets, tall palms and casuarinas; at a curving white hotel, pastel city and gem-blue harbor.

"How wonderful," she whispered, truly meaning it.

Gordon followed her gaze. As he looked, the swimmer tried seeing Oz _not_ as an athlete who'd often competed there, gotten drunk and been dreadfully sun-burnt, but as she did. And yes, it _was_ rather wonderful.

A few minutes later, Alan came hurrying back from the bar with own stack of plates, shoveling food as he trotted up.

"Whoa!" he exulted, hooking a seat from under the table with one bare foot and a lot of awkward hopping. Almost dropped his food, too, but Gordon half-rose to help out. "Thanks, man… 'ppreciate it. They've got, like, everything over there! Toast, eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, tons of jelly, orange juice… it's like grandma's breakfast, only without all that junk about manners!"

Recalling his own (manners, that is), Gordon reached over to muss TinTin's silky dark hair.

"Care f'r somethin' t' eat, Angel?" he enquired, adding firmly, "I'm payin', this time out. You c'n get the next."

TinTin hesitated, a blush like the bloom on a peach crossing her beautiful face.

"Peut-etre, si n'est-ce pas de trop… Oui, just tea and a bit of dry toast, Gordon. Thank you so much for asking."

But then her stomach growled, giving the lie to TinTin's noble lack of appetite.

"Right," Gordon laughed, rising rather stiffly from his seat. "As I understand not a word of damn French, the lot it is, then!"

TinTin was torn, not wishing to owe her wealthy friends the price of a large breakfast, and yet loving them for bothering about her. Even Alan shoved a bowl of sweetened porridge across the table, mumbling encouragement around his very-packed, crumb-flinging mouthful (philistine to the core that he was).

But a day such as this one was meant to be cherished, and TinTin absolutely intended to do so, deferring repayment for later. Breakfast with friends, outdoors of a sunny morning in Darwin, was a lovely occasion, indeed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Earlier, Tracy Island-_

Penelope woke like a satisfied cat; in slow, misty stages. Sitting beside her in bed, a partly-clad John was not just awake, but obsessively working; clattering madly away at an open laptop. Simply intolerable, when better activity lay close at hand. Rolling over, she caressed his near arm. Still damp from the shower, he was, and smelling rather warmly of soap.

"Do you not ever sleep?" Penny enquired languidly, stretching just a bit.

John glanced over, his face and upper body faintly visible in the screen glow.

"Not much," he admitted. "Just naps, mostly, but, um…" a smile flickered, briefly. "Almost two hours, this time." (She'd worn him out.)

Wary of pillow-creases and smudged makeup, Penny smiled back, but ducked the screen light as best she could. After all, one had a certain appearance to maintain, even abed. Not that image seemed to matter much, here. John's room was stark as a cell, with only a small fish tank providing motion or color. The programmable walls were blank, the television off and his windows and French-doors shuttered.

"Is there so very much to do?" Penny asked him, playfully running a finger along the computer's touchpad. The cursor began to skate graceful arcs across John's screen, interrupting his work. Annoyed, he sat farther up and twitched the keyboard out of her reach.

"Now that you've triggered the Base-wide missile defense system, you mean?"

Penelope's eyes widened. She, too, sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest.

"Defense system?" she whispered.

"Kidding," John confessed with a very slight smile. "I'm actually working out the cargo balance for an upcoming Moon Station supply flight I've been tapped to pilot. No missiles. Just... when I'm working, Penny… please don't touch."

"You absolute, smug, worthless… _wretch!"_

At once relieved and irritated, Penny struck at him. She lashed out with rather more force than most women would have, and in the process dislodged a black velvet jewel box from beneath John's pillow. All at once, the room fell very silent, indeed. Both of them stared at the case as though it had materialised from the rumpled blue duvet.

"It seems that you've dropped something," Penelope ventured at last, her voice just as flat as her insides were taut.

"Yeah… um…"

John minimized his cargo list and then closed the laptop entirely, raising the room's light level with a single, sharp word. The computer was cased and set upon his night stand before John took up the jewel box. Frowning at it for a few long seconds, he at last shrugged and said,

"I picked this up a month ago in Houston. Someone delivered a catalog to my office, so I decided to have a look before Pete came by for the meeting, and there were a few nice things. I dunno… you might like it."

_Too large for a ring box,_ she told herself, accepting the case from John's hands. For an instant, however, anything seemed possible. Anything at all. They made some quite gaudy ornaments in the States, and crafted rings large enough to require such a box as this one.

Penelope's heart jerked about in her bosom and her breathing went dreadfully ragged. As for the giver, John's head was slightly lowered, his pale hair falling in such a way as to hide that beautiful, expressionless face. Very much, she wished that he would take her hand, or at least _say_ something. But, as he did not, she filled up the silence, herself.

"I'm quite certain, darling, that as this gift has come from _you,_ I shall treasure it."

John didn't move or speak, too tense to shrug or even much breathe. Clenching wishes like bed-sheets, Penelope nerved herself, and then opened the black velvet box.

"Oh," she whispered, and once more, _"oh…!"_

For there… rendered in exquisite detail… shone a constellation of fine diamonds, whose name she could not, for the moment, recall.

"It's Orion," he supplied, shifting about somewhat to lean past her bare shoulder and point out stars.

"Well... in pin form, anyway. That's Betelgeuse. There's Belatrix, and Melissa. The belt stars are Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka, with the Orion Nebula underneath them, right here. Rigel and Saiph are at bottom, but everyone knows that. Here in the shield…"

Penelope watched John's face as he spoke, leaning against him and enjoying the calm rise and fall of his voice. He seemed very sure of himself, now; relaxed as though calling in to Mission Control, or advising his brothers. Too soon, however, John ceased speaking, and then it was time for her to respond. Faced with a princely, yet un-sentimental gift, Penny searched John's face for some hint of his feelings. Finding nothing at all but a curiously watchful intensity, she asked,

"Is… is this constellation your astrological sign, darling?"

"No."

And with that, the moment was over. John shook his head, rising from bed to dress himself.

"Orion isn't one of the zodiac signs, Penny. Just the first constellation I was able to…"

His words trailed away to an indistinct mumble, as John tugged a grey shirt on over his head. Meanwhile, Penelope marshaled her resources for a second attempt, touching a slim forefinger to the beautiful brooch in its nest of black velvet.

"Thank you, John. It is quite lovely, and frightfully rare, I should think."

He had a pair of khaki pants on by this time, and was tightly refastening his leather belt.

"I guess so. Keep it, if you want. Or I could get something else. Whatever works."

Struggling to recapture his full attention, Penelope removed the brooch and solemnly fastened it at one side of her head.

"There. What do you think, darling?"

John looked up from stepping into his deck shoes. Then he put forth a hand to touch the striding hunter she'd pinned to her golden hair. For the third time that night, he smiled at her.

"Looks nice, that way," he replied, not seeing any pillow creases or smudged mascara. Nothing but wide blue eyes and diamond stars in bright hair. "But now I'll have to get… I dunno… Cygnus, or something. For the other side."

Penelope caught his hand to her face and pressed it there, saying,

"I should very much welcome another star gift, darling, and I've just the place and time to receive it. A week's holiday on the Greek isles. Doesn't that sound splendid? Villas in Corfu and sailing-yachts in Crete… Just like a mission, but meant to please only ourselves!"

When he did not respond immediately (confused by the strangeness, mostly; work was one thing, but traveling away on vacation?) Penelope pressed his unresisting hand once more and said,

"We shall be simply a happy, anonymous young couple with nothing whatever to do but have fun. _Do _say that you'll come, dear, for I shall otherwise have to cancel." _Or ask another_.

John tapped her face lightly before withdrawing his hand. Then,

"What are the dates?" he asked.

Penelope told him, all in a quick, nervous rush.

"A month from now…" He repeated, frowning a bit. "This far in advance, I'm not going to promise anything, Penny, but… I'll try to show up, if I can."

It was a start. Orion sparkled in Penelope's hair as she wrapped herself in sheets to rise up and kiss her young man. In the absence of a promise, all she might do was to make her offer as tempting as possible; something Penelope knew quite well how to manage.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere, at another place and time-_

He rested, and dreamt very strangely; eyes open, gaze locked mistily ahead all the while. A thin, hopeless voice, like wind sighing through a bone-yard, pled…

"What is your name, mage? Speak your name, and be freed."

Again and again the voice asked him to speak, gentle and insistent as drizzling rain. Almost, he told her, but to do so would have opened what had to remain locked away. There were other voices, though, and these were weirdly familiar.

_"…Gordon, hang on, man! Okay? They're coming! You gotta hang in there!"_

_"Tryin', Alan… but…"_

_"Okay, listen to me, Gordon: save your breath. Just shut up and listen. You're my best friend, okay? Ever since we met on the island! Scott and Virgil are almost there, and I'm gonna keep talking… so you gotta promise to hang on a little longer! Gordon…? Come on, man, don't __do__ this…!"_

And another, more broken voice, saying,

_"Go find him, son. Go to the mainland and… bring your brother home."_

Something within him seemed to reply: _yes, sir_… though he wasn't sure why. They were far-off, despairing ghosts, and their sorrow stabbed the dark elf clean through, ending a brief, troubled rest. Rising fluidly, he looked around the camp site at his sleeping comrades and that huddled wound of a girl. At tall red cliffs, a lacy waterfall and the fading remains of their fire. All seemed secure, but...

Deeply uneasy, Male Elf drew a sigil of warding in midair, watching intently as red fire followed his moving fingertip. Then the half-formed ward sign snuffed itself out, sudden as a pinched candle-flame… And that was a very bad omen, indeed.


	54. 54: Provision

Looked over for editing purposes, but changes were made to 52, instead. Thanks, Eternal Density, I'mpekkable and Tikatu, for your reviews. Will answer, soon.

**54: Provision**

_Tracy Island, late morning-_

The following day dawned clear enough that Jeff took his sparse breakfast out in the sunroom, with doors flung wide to sea breeze and light. The boys liked it there, and frequently gathered in the place to drink and strategize, though Jeff had the room to himself, at the moment. Until Penelope glided in, anyhow.

Stylishly groomed and attired, bright as a newly-sprung flower, she entered the room with a very soft smile, humming as she walked.

"Lady Penelope!"

Standing, Jeff set aside his plate and e-print news sheet to pull out another chair.

"Won't you join me?"

"Good morning, Jeff, dear. Of course I shall."

He smiled broadly, captivated as always by her grace, poise and gentility. A man with a beauty like _that_ on his arm had definitely succeeded in life. Once she'd sat, perching light and erect as a songbird, Jeff ordered the wall comm to ring up Kyrano.

"What would you like this morning, Penny?" he asked, when Kyrano picked up in the kitchen.

Lady Penelope toyed with a spectacular diamond clip of some sort, refastening it to her gracefully upswept blonde hair.

"Oh… fresh fruit, I should think. A seafood omelet with caviar, shredded gruyere and toast points… Tea, naturally, and perhaps a small platter of croissants and scones, served with butter and marmalade."

All at once acutely embarrassed, Jeff cleared his throat and dropped a hasty cloth napkin over the remains of his toast, coffee and peanut butter.

"Actually, Penny… we're a little short of supplies, just now," he admitted reluctantly. "But Gordon left to go shopping last night, and hopefully he'll have sense enough to bring back more eggs. In fact, I'll call him."

Now, it was Penelope's turn to be embarrassed, as it hadn't occurred to her that the Tracy family might be experiencing a bit of bother with food. What a bore for them all, she thought to herself, and how dreadfully blind she'd been not to notice the previous night's lack of fresh vegetables or custard pastries. She apologized at once in a stricken voice, saying,

_"Do_ forgive me, Jeff. How terribly thoughtless of me to forget your current straits!"

In the meantime, however, Jeff had picked up his phone and speed-dialed a certain number.

"No, no… not at all, Penny. The funds are there; delivery's backed up a little, is all. Naturally, you wouldn't be expected to know about… Hold on a minute, please. _Yes,_ good morning, Gordon… quite well, thank you. The three of you are up and moving, I take it…? Good. Listen, I'm going to forward a grocery list to the Woolworth's in Darwin. Be sure to stop by and pick up my order before heading back, please. Yes… uh-huh. I'd give them a couple of hours, at least. It's going to be a large request."

When his lovely companion waggled her slim fingers, Jeff added,

"Lady Penelope says 'hello'… PENELOPE. Right. I'll pass that along."

Glancing back at the young noblewoman, Jeff told her,

"Gordon and TinTin wish you a good morning, Penny. But Alan's off in the stores, chasing down something called 'Pocky'."

Made him think of a hockey puck; rubbery, dark and round. Some kind of chocolate bar, maybe?

"I shall be most delighted to chat with all three upon their return," Penny responded graciously, "especially my precious TinTin!"

Jeff gave his son a few more instructions, rang off, and then immediately set about calling Woolworth's. Kyrano arrived soon afterward, bearing a tray of food (to his everlasting shame, only toast, their last few ham slices and a single, soft-boiled egg). There was champagne punch, as well, made with Cristal and orange Hi-C.

Far beneath what she was accustomed to, needless to say, but Penny cooed over the poor fare as though she were being feted by His Royal Majesty, King Denis, himself. She complimented Kyrano on the art and grace of his presentation, praising his inclusion of a large greenhouse blossom. The manservant smiled at her, convinced that Lady Penelope was an angel from Heaven. He bowed many times on his way out the hall door, silently promising to prepare for her, soon, the most sumptuous banquet of his career.

Once they were alone again, Jeff turned his full attention to Penelope. With an apologetic smile, he reached over to caress her hand, saying,

"It's going to get better, Penny. Our supply issues will be resolved in a few days, and things will return to normal; menu included."

She smiled back. Then, laying her free hand atop the one he'd touched her with, she gave Jeff a very light squeeze. An artful blush rose to Penelope's cheeks as she glanced up at his face, and then down again.

"Jeff, darling…" she began, in a hesitant voice.

"Yes?" he urged, leaning forward across the glass table.

"I… Of course, you've noticed my feelings for you. How could you not? Your strength and compassion, the noble cause that you've committed your wealth and family to pursuing, are truly singular." She gulped a little, almost as though about to cry, and Jeff automatically tightened his grip on her small, shaking hand. He'd have said something, but Penelope continued,

"So fine a man becomes a magnet for female attention, and I am far from immune. In fact… I have even dared dream that you might return those feelings."

Jeff's grip became suddenly possessive, his expression almost triumphant. Still holding her hand, the grey-haired former astronaut began to rise. Penelope hadn't finished, though.

"I've imagined happiness for us so many times, Jeff, and yet… just like you… I've also imagined the inevitable consequence, were the director of International Rescue to publicly link himself to an operative; the loss of morale, the finger-pointing and lowered respect… all because Jeff Tracy dared display his own needs to those beneath him."

All in a rush, leaning forward until a free lock of spun-gold hair brushed the crystal juice pitcher, she added,

"And, my dearest Jeff, I would do nothing, _ever_ to lessen your authority over International Rescue, your dream and creation. Not even for the life we might have shared together."

Jeff Tracy took a very deep breath. His head lowered, and he released her hand. She was right, of course, this fine and lovely young woman. The mission _had_ to come first.

"Penny," he said at last, rather huskily, "thank you for reminding me that I've chosen a life as well as a job… and that, much as I'd love to, I've got no right to think of myself. The man who finally wins you had better be grateful, is all I can say, because he's getting a real gem."

Her answering look was radiant with love and unshed tears.

"Oh, Jeff," she whispered, "how could I think of another when… when _someday…"_

He managed to dig up a smile, and then patted her hand, repeating,

"Someday."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Darwin, Australia-_

Breakfast seen to and phone calls taken, TinTin, Gordon and Alan plunged through the CBD, Darwin's Central Business District, and there did the day's marketing. As an old poem put it… _the sky was a pale blue cup, over a laughing land_… and at first TinTin enjoyed strolling Darwin's wide, tree-lined streets, ducking beneath deep awnings to escape that glaring sun.

Traffic was composed mostly of electric cars and lorries, and brisk enough to warrant keeping a sharp eye when crossing the streets. Royal Australian Air Force chappies were everywhere, quite visible in their smart AUSCAM uniforms. But neither they, nor their civilian charges accounted for most of the noise and roistering, which had an explosively animal cause. The trees were alive with birds; with black cockatoos flashing yellow tails as they took to the air, and with screeching, jewel-toned lorikeets. Finches, doves and bee-catchers darted about, as well, pausing now and again to peck at the ground or light upon an awning, bright-eyed and curious.

TinTin clung close beside Gordon as they wandered from shop to shop along Trower Road. From shyness, at first, and then because his solid-warm presence blocked the crowd's surging, busy thoughts. Alan left them repeatedly; first orbiting TinTin and Gordon's slow progress, then zipping off for long minutes to return with yet another packet of sweets or small trinket. He laughed a great deal and spent too much, and his mind was most emphatically one of those from which TinTin sought shelter. Too loud, too boisterous, too _much._ So the girl pressed her face against Gordon's hard-muscled shoulder, closing her eyes to fierce sunshine and her mind to loud clamor.

"TinTin…? Are y' quite all right?"

The swimmer had been using his cell phone and WiFi-enabled sunglasses to check out Darwin's virtual site map, meaning that he knew where to find Woolworth's, but hadn't much noticed his steadily wilting companion. She shook her head at him, tired from all that constantly clenched mental focus.

"Here," he said, directing her to a shaded seat at an outdoor café table. "You've gone and got sun-stroke. Wait a bit, and I'll fetch you a drink."

_Please stay,_ she'd have told him, dreading that swirl of enclosing minds. But TinTin had as little power to speak now, as to shield herself from the tug-of-war crowd-surge. All she could do was to sit with her eyes closed and her music turned up, and try very hard not to scream.

Gordon strode off, returning a few minutes later with ice-cream and drinks from a take-away window.

"Here you are. Relax f'r a bit, Angel. I've aspirin, if you need any."

TinTin took a sip from her coke and then set her aching head against his shoulder once more, a gesture which Gordon steadfastly refused to interpret. Alan jogged up a short time afterward, waving urgently.

"C'mon, you guys!" he called. "What's taking so long? There's a Best-and-Less right around the dang corner! I'm serious!"

"Right," Gordon agreed, as the exasperated boy thumped into an empty seat beside them. "TinTin's takin' a bit of a breather, and then we'll be off straight away. My oath on it."

"Yeah, yeah… less talk, more action, both of you. I want lots of time to get to the beach, okay? We _gotta_ hurry!"

TinTin gave Alan a brief, apologetic smile, and then nerved herself to rise. Meanwhile, a pair of teenaged girls (from the hotel, she thought) had been drawing slowly nearer. One was dark-haired, the other blonde, both terribly giggly. They looked mostly at Gordon, who appeared not to notice. Being rather famous, however, he _did_ tend to attract attention. Especially the female sort.

"Crazed stalker-fan alert," Alan sighed, wishing he had the same problem.

Gordon looked around and then spotted the pair, who'd developed a sudden interest in a big glass shop-window piled high with shoes. Recalling his stolen clothing, the swimmer grimaced slightly and shook his head.

"They're harmless enough," he told his brother. "Just out f'r a bit of excitement. I'll handle it."

He got up again and crossed the concrete walkway, passing between awning supports to join the girls at their window display. They must have seen his approaching reflection, because the blonde reached over and dug her fingers into the brunette's upper arm. Both turned to face him at once, shrill as a pair of trapped mice.

"Oh, hi!" the blonde squeaked aloud, rather cute in her blue bathing suit top and flowered shorts. "Remember us? I'm Amy and this is Joyce? From America?"

Joyce's dark eyes had grown face-swallowing huge, and now she began to shake.

"Hi…" she gasped, when prodded by her determined young friend. "Um, I… I'm sorry!" (She was the one who'd taken his shirt and "wrist watch", back at the hotel pool.)

"Gordon Tracy," he re-introduced himself, extending a hand to shake theirs, "and I thank you f'r not pinchin' my gear, this time out."

They blushed hot, collapsing against each other in a fit of silly giggles.

"Don't have to anymore," Joyce told him from behind her two hands. "We already know where to find you!"

Amy hissed,

"Shut up, stupid!"

…and then turned her wide green eyes on a deeply bemused Gordon.

"We're going to the beach fair at Nightcliff, later on. Wanna come with? You could bring, you know… your other friends."

Gordon looked reflexively over at TinTin and Alan. The lass's head was down, but Alan was just about vibrating.

"Well… provided we're quick with th' marketing, I can't see why not. Alan's been on about th' wretched shore all day, and I've heard th' fairs are not t' be missed."

"So…" pretty Amy looked ready to hug him. "It's a date, Gordon?"

Once more, his glance was drawn toward TinTin, who'd finally lifted her head.

"A _meeting,_ let's say," he corrected the eager young lasses. They were sweet, and obviously interested, but Gordon aspired to more. "Look f'r us after sunset, provided nothin' unfortunate intrudes."

They accepted quite readily, holding themselves together until Gordon was turned away and heading back to his table. Then the girls screeched aloud,

_"Omigod, omigod, omigod!"_

…like they'd just arranged trysts with a film star.

"Nightcliff beach, once we've finished our marketin'," Gordon informed the others. "Jamie and… hang on… that's not right… _Amy!_ Amy an' Joyce have requested th' pleasure of our company, this evenin'."

Or, rather, they'd requested Gordon's company, and everyone present knew it.

"Not fair," Alan groused, finishing the last of TinTin's ice-cream with quick, savage scrapes of spoon on glass. "What have you got that I don't, besides muscles, some medals and a dumb accent?"

"A full pilot's license an' a plane, without which you'll have t' _swim_ home, towin' a raft of supplies."

Rather a neat response, Gordon thought, looking over at TinTin for encouragement, but the girl remained quiet. Truthfully, he blocked other minds the way that their awning blocked sunshine, but he was also a boiling mass of hormones, and what Gordon desired was increasingly obvious to her. Not in so many words or images, for he hadn't entirely admitted his own feelings, but in a warm sort of tender _push._ The little contacts and rough affection were becoming more serious, leaving TinTin at once confused, worried… and curious. (Though it was Virgil she cared for! _Virgil!_)

"Shall we go?" she asked suddenly, jumping slightly at her own feverishly high-pitched words. "There are many things left to buy, and I must find gifts still for Papa and Lady Penelope."

This was greeted enthusiastically enough, and so the trio rose with a great clatter of chairs and gathering of dishes to brave the local Best-and-Less. It was only afterward that they went to Nightcliff for their meeting with two girls, and one other.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_At another place, in a sparse, stony forest-_

They traveled quite a ways northward but found no village or temple prosperous enough to accept a clearly addled girl-child. Nor could they simply abandon the lass, who was growing up with alarming speed. And _still_, Sir Gawain could get no sense of her; no feeling of good or evil. Just a blank, awful emptiness and gasping-deep loss.

The Cross-knight was not quite himself yet, so Male Elf led them forward, leaving a stormy coastline to make for the bleak northern woods. He was troubled by voices at odd moments and sometimes by visions, as well.

One chilly morning, just before they broke camp, Male Elf walked to the spot where Gawain (stripped to the waist) was shaving himself. This was a peculiarly human act involving the scraping away of facial hair with some kind of blade; a dagger, in Gawain's case. The knight had conjured a soapy basin and reflective disk to view himself in, and seemed quite consumed by the task of rasping at his chin and then dipping and swishing the knife-blade. _Scritch, scritch_ and _splush_, went the dagger.

"G' mornin', Master Elf," he grunted, keeping his eyes on the hovering reflection. "Had a good rest, I hope?"

But the elf only shrugged. Locating a fallen pine log, he sat himself down. It was decidedly cold. This far north, trees were becoming scarce and rocks more frequent, while the odd pool and puddle now boasted a thin rind of ice.

"Passably," Male Elf replied, prying idly at the log's flaking bark. Small insects fled from the unexpected light, seeking shelter like dawn-caught dark elves. "I'm not here to trade greetings, though."

Working on the neck, now, Gawain almost cut his own throat trying to nod with a tipped-back head.

"Right. No more polite chatter. What's y'r trouble?"

_Finally_. The elf shifted a bit on his dew-sodden log, and said,

"Do you think that… something like ghosts from another world could somehow, I don't know… speak in our thoughts?"

Gawain lowered knife and head both, looking hard at him.

"What sort of ghosts?" the knight demanded, very seriously. The undead were very much a concern of his.

"Not evil ones," Male Elf hastened to reassure his friend. "Just other-worldly. As in… they're truly alive, over there, thinking that _we're_ nothing but shadows."

"Huh." Gawain thought a bit, and then resumed shaving, being very careful to keep his long red moustache intact. "Well, there are more things in life and death than I am able to ken, friend elf… especially now. Y' might better wait a few days, or take th' matter t' Frodle."

"Maybe so."

Male Elf nodded. He had no intention of approaching the scholar, however, because Frodle would see past his words to the actual situation, and would then remain on the scent like a starving hound. And the dark elf wanted no such scrutiny. Changing the subject, he stood up and said,

"I'm going to take Glud and scout ahead for game, Gawain, because I'm sick and tired of dried seal."

"Can't argue with that," the knight agreed ruefully, disposing of mirror and basin with a swift, quiet word. "Don't wander beyond call, though."

The former drow clasped his friend's shoulder and then left in search of Glud, whom he found dousing and collecting their ward-stones.

"Hunting?" the half-orc repeated, pausing to sort through his weapons. "But I have no spear."

"I do," said Male Elf, who'd kept one of the sea-elf lances and had his bow, besides. "It'll be short for you, but we can always find a tall sapling and make a new shaft from it, later."

Glud accepted the silver-chased seal-sticker with evident doubt.

"My brother Voreig is the hunter," he said, as they headed off in search of anything at all besides desiccated seafood.

"You have brothers?" Male Elf questioned idly. He'd placed a stealth charm on the massive orc, and wasn't much concerned about noise.

"Yes. Many of them. We are born in groups to a weary female. Not so with your kind?"

The elf shook his head.

"No. We're birthed one at a time, and rarely, at that. Someday, we'll cease reproducing altogether… but not yet."

It felt odd to be discussing such matters with Glud, who'd sprung from _two_ alien species. That in itself ought to have made them enemies, but a genuine kinship had risen between the dark elf and half-orc; more than friendship, less than blood, and wholly inexplicable.

The trees here were larch and rusty-leaved spruce, and they stood gathered in copses around springs of water, or in small, rocky valleys. Their nymphs were wild, shy things, glimpsed at the corner of one's vision, if at all. Slender and quick-moving, they paced the two hunters without ever quite showing themselves, slipping like wind through the trunks and branches. Here a flash of wolf-yellow eyes, there a swirl of needle-like, dark green hair, but that was all. Fortunately, Glud carried no axe, and Male Elf hadn't much scent of the caverns about him. Still, they were closely watched, and the elf made certain to ask permission before stringing his bow.

The wood's answer came in voices of clattering hail and sighing dark needles.

_"The creatures are warned of your presence… but you have leave to try… __without__ magic."_

They'd been given a fox's chance, or an owl's; and the elf's stealth charm was no more.

"Try not to walk so heavily," he advised the mercenary, who moved like a sight-seeing hillock. "You'll scare everything away."

"Sorry," Glud replied guiltily, his voice a rumbling whisper, subtle as thunder. Hunting really _wasn't_ his ideal pursuit, as the half-orc startled rabbits and pheasants from cover in plenty, but well out of accurate bow shot. The last thing Male Elf wanted to do in this place of staring trees was to wound without killing, so time and again he held his shot and his temper.

Two hours later, they'd taken just four scrawny prizes, and Male Elf was well past through. Sitting down upon a lichen-clad rock, he put up his bow and said,

"To hell with it, I'm _conjuring_ supplies."

"Stay," Glud protested, lifting both huge, calloused hands. "You will waste more strength in seeking than you get back from the food. My grandmother, Anwyrr, starved to death in a sealed cave, that way."

"And so will we, on nothing but fish jerky and elderly rabbits."

His mind made up, Male Elf closed both eyes and stilled himself in order to begin seeking. Then he roused, again.

"Wait a moment; if your grandmother had magicks enough to conjure food, why didn't she just be-spell another opening, and escape the damn cave?"

Glud shrugged, causing his string of dead rabbits to sway.

"She didn't think of it. Also, there was a mob of angry villagers collected outside."

"Oh. Raiding the livestock, was she?"

Many footloose young goblins and orcs got in trouble, that way. Older ones, too, apparently. Much better to do one's hunting afield, or with magic, though the one was uncertain, and the other extremely draining.

With Glud crouched like a boulder beside him and the nymphs looking on, Male Elf closed his eyes and reached into darkness. Ordinarily, he might have encountered far-off larders, saddle bags and unspelled root cellars. This time, though, his mind went elsewhere and brought back…

"This is food?" Glud fretted a few moments later, poking at a flat box made of stiff brown paper. Seemed harmless enough, lying unclaimed on the rocky ground, but the box was deeply stained with bright orange grease, and smelt very odd. There were gold metal cylinders, as well; like drinking vessels, but closed at both ends. The box and vessels alike were marked with cryptic sigils. From the far southlands, possibly?

Curious (and very hungry) Glud pried open the steaming brown box. Inside was laid a disk of bread, covered in red paste with bird-dropping trickles of white stuff all over. Glud bent low and snuffed at it, then sneezed with such violence that he blew the container quite over, spilling its contents.

"My friend," he said to the elf, once his spasms had ceased, "you are a much better hunter than mage. Stick to the bow."

On the other hand, those cylinders weren't bad, at all.


	55. 55: Night Must Fall

Will hurry with edits.

**55: Night Must Fall**

_In darkness, hunger and lust-_

Said one, sensing victory like a tight-clenching fist,

_"Watch, now, and we shall see which hells are unleashed at the whim of our lost one."_

The other's appetite was strong, its need for terror and bloodshed unguessably deep, but it murmured in reply,

_"Let us hope that she wakes angry, and that her prey may provide sport enough for all."_

_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

Tracking down the rest of the party proved simple enough, though Male Elf and Glud were delayed by a fluttering explosion of pheasants. The birds were fast-moving targets, but the contents of those golden cylinders did much to increase the elf's confidence. Straight through the eye or the heart went his arrows; a true shot, every time. They would eat well, that night, and Glud was pleased enough by the thought of roasting birds and rabbit stew to rumble a merry song.

Topping a windy, snaking ridge, around noon, the pair caught up with their companions; or what remained of them. The leeward side of the ridge was covered in loose, shifting scree, with only a few stunted trees providing anchorage. The elf could have bounded down-slope in moments, hardly disturbing a pebble. Glud was less graceful and required more time, though, making their going a slow, stop-and-start sort of thing.

A scent of dripping snow-melt and stunted pines was carried on the gusty wind, which plucked at their hair and clothing. There was sunshine, but little warmth and less warning. Not that foresight would have helped much.

Male Elf got a sudden, sharp squeeze from his wrist-bound familiar, just as he caught the first hair-prickle hint of a trap. Reaching for spells and his bow, the elf looked suspiciously downward. He spied a large mass of cobwebs hiding the base of the slope; like greyish mist, or dense shadow. The substance twitched and swelled as he watched it, absorbing more of the steep-walled valley. And worse yet, reaching upward.

Uneasy in mind, Male Elf turned to warn the orc, just in time to see his friend destroyed. A lashing dark tendril rose from below to strike at the creature, who collapsed at once into gnawed bone and corroded metal. Startled, Male Elf cried out, lunging for the spot where Glud had just been. He missed his footing and began to slide, riding a clattersome avalanche of jagged flints toward the valley floor. Not that he had to be stable, to work magic. As he plunged, Male Elf extended one hand to that lightless spider's nest and snarled,

"Burn!"

Red flames shot from his palm to the swollen shadow. Hit directly, the web shriveled and spat, consumed by magical fire. But something stirred amid those scorching strands, gliding out to confront him. It was their foundling, Aeralyn, but very much changed. Grown tall she was; skeletally thin and hollow-eyed, with hair of drifting grey. Beside her lay heaped up the shattered skeleton and torn armor of a fallen knight… with a terribly bent and elderly halfling… and the greyish slime that had once been a mouthy, disreputable thief. Beyond that… Well, his mind balked at accepting what was left of their mounts.

Male Elf halted his plunge by catching hold of a twisted young pine tree. No matter. Time and decay came to him, instead, drifting upward on tendrils of night. Hovering to face him, she whispered,

_"What is your name and your cavern, mage? Why do you turn your back upon true power?"_

Her hand went forth. Bone-thin fingers brushed at his face, leaving trails of black frostbite. Hollow, grave-pit eyes stared through and beyond as she pressed,

_"Why do you deny me?"_

…For she was worshipped in the Underdark, this spidery handmaid of Death, but not any more by _him._ He jerked away from her icy touch, stumbling backward and down. Pain flared at his wrist, with a sudden burst of wild light. Copper and violet, his wyvern familiar swooped from the glow, jaws agape and spitting fire.

"No!" he called to her, willing the loyal creature away. Again, too late. A brief moment's focus; then time reduced her, too, to shapeless ruin. In small, glowing bits, like a handful of embers, she dropped to the rocky ground.

_"I cannot be stopped, nor avoided,"_ whispered the Queen of the Lost, Lady Entropy. _"In the end… all ends… I shall feed upon creation, then drift in sorrow and hunger for all eternity."_

Her barely-fleshed face looked around at flat-slipping rock and straggling plants. At the sun and pale sky. Then it tilted back to regard Male Elf.

_"Name yourself, mage, and release what was placed within you. Feed me with struggle, as __they__ did."_

One shadow-draped, web-trailing hand indicated the remains of Gawain, Allat and Frodle. Pointed to the stiff limbs and drained bodies of three torn-apart steeds. If he spoke…

_"Name yourself, mage, and make ready to strengthen me."_

He thought of death. His own, and that of the sorrowing ghost-folk. If he ended himself, she would have no victory, and no meal. He knew the final spell, had stored it up long ago, against need such as this.

Then another voice spoke, rusty with age, thin as a cricket's:

"End… and beginning… are one. Death feeds… new life, always."

It was Frodle, somehow still conscious, despite time's deadening grip. Her head swiveled, growing a spider's tusks and beaded black eyes.

_"Alive __yet__, scholar?"_ she hissed at him. _"A careless oversight."_

The demon turned, but before she could slaughter his halfling friend, Male Elf switched tactics. Muttering swift words, he dredged up and hurled a spell of greater holding.

"Stay!" he commanded her. Without hope, really, for a being of such power could not be trapped by one mutilated and self-exiled drow. "Let him alone!"

Mostly spider she was now; dark and insatiable. Weakened by scheming comrades, she hungered for the black spark that was trapped inside the elf. Again she turned, and drew closer. Hollow fangs snapped within inches of his face, as the demon repeated,

_"What isss yourrrr naaaaaame?"_

Below them, Frodle cleared his head and his heart, and then called upon the example of Master Letterlaw. Grasping his splintered staff, the once-young halfling forced himself to rise. Feeble in body, clean and strong of purpose, he said,

"No, demon, you can't be stopped… but you won't win, either. You'll eat until there's nothing left, and then you'll give birth to new worlds, killing yourself in the process."

She turned to look at him, more curious than angry. Distracted. And slowly… not much… time began to reverse itself. A few tendons draped the Cross-Knight's dry bones. Some of his armor mended itself, while the grey, lifeless puddle that had been Allat bubbled slightly.

_Keep her interested,_ Frodle's pale, rheumy gaze begged the elf. _Help me distract her! _So, Male Elf lunged back up-slope, calling out,

"What brings you to the fair northern woods, milady? A sudden yen for travel? Or were you banished here? Reduced, banished and trapped?"

She lifted from the ground to follow him. Meanwhile, drawn from the very rocks and earth of the hillside, a score of giant shapes began to take form. Midworld itself had decided to act.

_"You guess better than you realize, drow," _whispered the demon. _"I was indeed cheated and bound, cast here by two who shall soon be made to feel my displeasure." _

More flesh on the knight, now, and a re-woven surcoat crossed in bright red. Uphill, another few orc bones sorted themselves out, while closer-to, a clattering, rumbling, slip-skitting army of rocky giants lurched forward. Joined by shifting trees, they reached out with huge, grasping rubble hands, but the demon laughed at them all, saying,

_"Blind and foolish children… With time enough, even Midworld shall pass, and her mighty rocks crumble to sand."_

The stone giants disintegrated beneath her shadowed gaze; carried off on a sharp-keening wind. Within moments, their sandy remains had blown away like smoke. As for the lashing, hissing pines… they simply rotted to nothing, going from living wood to sodden black stumps in less than a gasp or a heart beat.

Said Male Elf, scrambling sideways as he fought to keep her attention,

"So… Beaten and cast away to dwell with mortals, milady, you decide to give your attackers a show? Very generous."

_"A show?"_

She changed forms and moved again, crossing to face him with no more than a flicker of thought. For was she not everywhere? Were her seeds not firmly planted in all that lived and drew breath?

The demon exhaled, and darkness surrounded him. He was cold, empty and alone, drifting abandoned, past any hope of rescue. But something within him refused to accept this. Something insisted stubbornly: _we tried to help you._

And that was truth. Gawain had pulled her from the rocks. Frodle had dressed her. Even Allat had talked and amused the child, or tried to. As for the dark elf, he'd fed this silent creature and named her, allowing the thing they'd unwittingly sheltered to curl up and rest at his side.

_"Had you known what I am…"_ spoke the empty and hungering blackness.

"We still would have tried," Frodle's voice cut in, wavering slightly, "because that is what good folk do… even at risk to themselves."

Darkness and frost coalesced once more, forming a tall and despairing queen. Midworld crumbled with age around her, the sky dulling, the sun swelling hugely red. And all life became dust.

_"Here is the end of goodness and effort," _she taunted, indicating worn-away mountains and vanished seas. _"What say you to that?"_

Something came to him, then; senseless, but oddly fitting. So Male Elf replied,

"We gave it the old college try?"

She shrank somewhat, reversing time again.

_"Such levity changes nothing, drow. My victory is total and assured."_

Yet… she stayed her hand, and life returned to his battered friends and their horses. One by one, they woke and stood up.

"_I am done with shows, having much larger prey to stalk than a handful of worthless mortals. Lest I leave you bored, however…"_

As she reduced herself, becoming in size a child, again, the demon waved a negligent hand.

"…_receive from me a small gift."_

A glistening, toothed maw opened up in midair, being one end of a fanged and rippling tunnel. It seemed to stretch miles and dimensions away, and at its distant nether terminus, the elf glimpsed a vast and terrible army; things undead and never-were.

The demon signaled, and her shadow horde began to move, surging along the puckered tunnel. Sir Gawain retrieved sword and shield, and raced to meet the half-orc, muttering spells of blessing and defense.

"Shut th' gate!" he commanded Frodle, just now scrambling up-slope. Meanwhile, Glud and Allat raced over in time to catch his next order, beating the advancing demon army by scant minutes.

"Master Elf, place y'rself in position to shoot. Glud, you're with me. Allat, th' horses!"

She laughed at their preparations, saying,

"_Your lives I leave you. How you keep them is your own affair."_

Then, having more immediate concerns, the queen of loss and darkness vanished entirely away. Again, the scholar visualized his stout-hearted master.

"Uncle," he whispered, lifting his staff, "be with me!" And then he began his spell.

Allat had taken the shape of a small griffin. Shrieking and snapping, he drove Grayling and Dapple away from the fight. Not St. George, though. The massive warhorse would not be parted from Gawain, though hell itself yawned open between them. The horse reared and wheeled about. Striking at Allat with heavy, pale hooves, St. George broke away and galloped thunderous-fast to the Cross-Knight, neck extended and ears well back. Reaching up with one hand, Gawain seized his horse and swung himself into the saddle. Moments later, they were beset.

Sir Gawain hewed and stabbed from horseback, side by side with Glud, who wielded blades and teeth and savage kicks. Poised on a rocky outcrop, Male Elf rained arrows and ice-bolts, but it was like rushing to battle the sea. With each passing moment, the hell-mouth disgorged ever more demons. They rushed into Midworld through a wound in reality, roaring like floods as they came.

The ground itself fought back, gaping wide open to snap down and crush dozens of onrushing warriors. Mists rose, thick and blinding. Clouds gathered dark overhead, and lightning flashed repeatedly, but the brunt of the fight was physical, and close to finished.

Gawain slashed and fought until his sword blunted and his hands were shock-numbed. He glowed, hoarse with spells and shaking with power, shield riven almost in half by the downward stroke of a fiery ax-blade. Like a machine, Gawain slew them, but always there were more; fighting with spells of their own and with burning sword-points that now and again touched flesh.

At his side, Glud stood knee-deep in fallen demons, streaming from many wounds and roaring defiant insults. St. George reared, clubbed and snapped, protected from the left by a small, winged dragon. A bit further off, rock elementals stamped demons into the ground like brittle insects.

…But the hordes of hell came on, one replacing the other with burning eyes and twisted smiles.

"Shut the gate!" Gawain repeated, after a white spell (his last but one) had burnt away hundreds of foes.

Frodle nodded desperately, mumbling keyword after keyword. So far, all he'd managed to do was summon elemental assistance, and keep the mouth from widening.

"Master, direct me!" he panted, as yet another cadre gushed forth.

He was heard and answered from a far-off place of spell-warmed tea and gold sunshine, of wind-ruffled pages and tall, beeswax candles. There, an elderly halfling set aside his big tome and spoke up.

"_Sister-son, be still!"_ he murmured. _"Listen…"_

The words came to Frodle, then; uncoiling green and fresh as a row of seedlings.

"Close, I abjure you!" the young halfling called joyously, once more lifting his wooden staff. "Midworld and life itself, with all of their flaws, bid you be sealed, shut and _locked!"_

The mouth snapped shut at once like fanged trap, crushing many charging demons and severing others in half. But the many thousands yet remaining formed up and drove harder, crashing against the defenders. Gawain and Glud were soon overwhelmed, dragged down amid lashing blades and crushing maces. St. George fell next.

Still on his rock, but out of arrows, Male Elf cast away the bow. Nothing left to do. Nothing at all, except...

"Drehn!" he shouted aloud, "Son of Regnard and Mirralis! Prince of the Seventh Cavern, sworn to the service of Lloth!"

Something tore open within him. Power, heady and dark, flared once again, out to the very fingertips. Raising both hands, the elf cried,

"Cause grievous harm!"

Deadly force radiated from him in hot, tearing pulses. Caught in the way, demon warriors burned, or sprang deep, horrid gashes. Like animate lightning, the curse-bolts shot from one demon to the next, and where they went, death followed. Nor would it stop, not for anything.

An elemental was pierced clean through, and shattered like glass. Then the spreading curse-fire began to race after Frodle and the frantically dodging wyvern.

"No! Not _them!"_ the elf protested. But his magic, once released, would not halt. Instead, as a torn and bloodied Gawain fought to reach him, Male Elf used even deeper magicks to hurl himself in front of each bolt. Nine grievous curses he intercepted that way, absorbing their awful damage. In the end, wounded unto death, he could no longer see, but must sense them with mage-craft, knowing he'd caught another bolt when pain wrenched him nearly in half and the world grew suddenly darker. Seven hurled him to the ground. Eight tore away sensation and hope of survival. Nine…

The ground seemed to shift and tip, its clattering stones and broken elementals sliding away beneath him. Knowing his end, Male Elf clutched at rocks he could not feel. Turned his face toward light that he no longer saw. From somewhere far off, the scholar was yelling…

"I can barely approach him, Gawain! My spells won't penetrate the shield of dark magic!"

Then (as he burned and shuddered and laughed at his own stupidity), the halfling spoke again.

"Friend elf, you must listen to me. Gawain can't heal you this way! All he can do is destroy the source of those curses, and I don't have the power to stop him or to save you! Gawain is trying, Elf, but he can't hold back much longer! Ask forgiveness. Plead for atonement, I beg you!"

_Plead?_ He laughed inside himself, burning hotter and darker, now. Dying, because everything else was a lie.

"No," he said… and that was all.


	56. 56: Justice

Thanks for the reviews of 55. Just another few scenes...

**56: Justice**

_In a very dark place, riven with rage and pale fire-_

She materialized from the black stone in which they'd bound her essence; quashing her own fury because otherwise, entire worlds would have crumbled. Tall as a goddess she rose up before them, towering bitter, vengeful and cold.

The Hooded One and his fleshless companion did not speak or gesture, for their gambit had ended, and the next move was hers. Angry, she was; wakened and hungry, as well.

_"Do you, my lords, seek battle? Or shall Terror and War place themselves upon the game board, as they conspired to do with me?"_

Spoke the Hooded One, in a voice of braided screams,

_"For such as we to be bound up in mortal form…"_

_"…Would be no more than justice. Unless you wish to face me at once, rather than awaiting the final day?"_

Speaking thus, she grew in power, taking darkness and cold and isolation as weapons, inevitability for her armor and shield.

_"But if so, be warned, my lords… I shall not lose."_

Said the Crowned Skull (nothing at all without disputed territories, battles and those who fought them),

_"Remember yourself, and cease this childish display, Entropy. We have tossed the bones and lost a round. As victor, you have the right to set terms, and your demand is just."_

The skull swiveled upon stolen vertebrae. Staring at the Hooded One, he said,

_"I will suffer myself to be placed amid mortals, for the usual term of 666 days and one hour. And you, Terror? What is your decision?"_

The tall demon lord waited a bit before replying. He was not to be rushed or prodded, ever. Then (already plotting where and _how_ he would strike), he said,

_"I accept the judgment. Let it be done."_

Splinters of no-time later (or before; such a notion hardly mattered to demons)_,_ the Queen of the Lost was alone in their chamber, drifting companionless before a window to Midworld and its un-magicked alternate. She had much to watch and manipulate.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Darwin, Australia, the beach fair at Nightcliff-_

Exasperated, Alan pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at his brother's cold, static icon.

"What d'you mean, you're not gonna play anymore?" the boy demanded. "You can't quit on us, now, John! We need you!"

His brother's voice was hard to make out through all the music and crowd noise, until Alan got fed up and raised the volume.

_"…too busy, Alan. There's a lot happening at home, on top of which I've got several IMS re-supply missions coming up. Bottom line: I just don't have time to play games."_ Then, as though it genuinely hurt him to dredge up and use the phrase, _"I'm sorry."_

Alan sighed, but he didn't give up. Gordon and TinTin were strolling along behind him, somewhere, trying weird food from the cooking booths and buying stuff. Those hotel-chicks hadn't shown up yet, though.

"Listen, dude… just think about it, is all I'm asking, okay? If you gotta go, _fine. _Fermat can roll for you, or you can leave me a list of numbers. There's no reason we can't keep Male Elf in the game, long as you promise to pick up again, whenever you get back. Well…? Deal…?"

He kind of expected to get snapped at or hung up on, but John surprised him.

_"I'll think it over, Alan," _said the exhausted astronaut. _"No promises, though. There an ass-load of work to do, and other things… people… around here to deal with."_

"Come on… y' know you want to," Alan wheedled, sensing victory. John had been accused of having no imagination, but he actually _did_… when there were charts and tables and random numbers involved, anyways.

_"No promises,"_ John replied, but maybe there was a smile's ghost in his mostly-bored voice.

"Okay, none taken. See ya when we get back, bro, and the bones will be rolling!"

John mumbled something halfway sociable (instead of "yeah, whatever,") and then he rang off, still having not quite committed. But Alan grinned as he flicked shut his phone and tucked it away. Good ol' workaholic John. If you could count on anything, it was that he really, _totally,_ hated to leave things unfinished. And, hey… what were a few blazing curse bolts between brothers, right?

The setting sun had painted Nightcliff's sandstone bluffs a bright, glowing red. Seawater rumbled and spumed, booming against the shore and then making its long, hissing withdrawal. Powerful cooking smells filled the air, blending curry, seafood, oriental spices and grilled meats with the warm perfume of sticky-sweet desserts. Music swirled and coloured lights bounced, swaying above the fairway on long, drooping cords.

TinTin and Gordon had lost sight of Alan, but they didn't worry. After all, the bazaar was a sprawling affair, and quite well attended. Doubtless, he'd found a candy stall, or someone hawking the latest in surf gear.

At one point, as they canvassed the crafts aisle for her father's gift, Gordon slipped an arm around TinTin's waist. The girl froze, for her top was cropped short, meaning that her companion's hand was resting open against bare flesh. All at once, matters were terribly confusing and it was impossibly difficult to breathe. She felt suffocated; at once ticklish-pleased and afraid.

Gordon's hand did not move, but it was very warm and possessive against her unprotected waist, holding her close at his side (while, in his mind, she was held closer, still). Then… Dieu merci… the so-noisy girls came upon them at last, laughing and chattering like songbirds. They'd a friend with them; a quiet girl with brown hair, and eyes that gleamed slightly gold in the day's final light. They rushed upon Gordon and tugged at him, but he only tightened his arm around TinTin. Looking from one to the others he said,

"Thanks very much, I'm sure… but, if you'd not be too terribly upset, I'd rather stay on and help TinTin."

It was precisely then that she seized this heaven-sent chance at escape. Turning up the volume of her iPod music, TinTin pulled free of his grip, saying,

"Perhaps you should go with them, Gordon, and explore the shore… or search for Alan. I… I have the very bad head, again, and still must find gifts."

She kept her dark eyes stubbornly fixed upon the ground, heart hammering fast within her. The swimmer waited a moment. Then, quietly, he mumbled,

"Right. Understood. I'll… catch up t' you later, I suppose."

Gordon hadn't called her "angel", and he didn't look back as the American girls and their quiet new friend led him away through the crowd. But if TinTin Kyrano cried, nobody noticed, anymore than they witnessed what happened thereafter.


	57. 57: Retribution

Next little bit. Edited.

**57: Retribution**

_A cold, rocky valley at sunset, the scene of a barely-survived fight-_

Sir Gawain moved like a puppet, drawn against his will toward the ghastly-dark, burning thing that his friend was become. He had almost no will in the matter and no way to stop himself. Nor was he advancing to heal. But others had got there before him.

Strengthened by the blessings of his master, Frodle had ventured close enough to crouch at the dark elf's side. Talked and gestured, he did, but to very little effect. There were nymphs present, too, along with a smallish dragon sprung from the drow's arm-ring. Gawain vaguely recalled repairing the object, whose other form now reared up and spread tattered wings. Glittering copper in the sun's last rays, it warned him back with swan-like hisses and snaps.

But, screen the mage though they might, the evil it held was palpable; foul and repugnant as grave-rot and wormwood. Gawain could sense it, and he had no choice at all but to strike. Yet his steps dragged, and a mounting horror rose up inside him. For the thing that lay writhing with fire on its bed of sharp flints had saved them all, at terrible cost to itself.

So, Gawain fought, as once he had in the demon lords' grasp. Not for escape, but to halt his own stiff, jerking progress; to prevent himself from reaching a mortally wounded friend.

"No," he grunted. Hardly audible though it was, the word made him violently sick. It weakened him. "I…"

Another unwilling step brought him half a yard further along, his boots scuffing reluctantly through bloodied stones and splintered wood.

"I w…"

Almost, he'd said: _I will not._ But the iron-hard will of a perfectly just deity forced Gawain to keep walking, even as it drove one gauntleted hand to the hilt of his sword. There wasn't much space, now, between the knight and his terrible responsibility. Another few yards of cold wind and felled demons, at best.

Then, Glud arrived at a limping run, disrupting the Cross-Knight's business. Grunting and howling, he barreled at Sir Gawain with the sun at his back, surely too injured to stand, yet somehow still moving; somehow too foolish to know better. Glud stumbled to a halt between Gawain and Drehn, brandishing a notched sword to ward off the Cross-Knight. His stance was crouched and aggressive, but the creature's roar had more of pain than rage in it, matching Gawain's fierce anguish.

They faced each other in combat before a twice-damned and burning elf. Or would have done, had the knight drawn his own weapon.

"Fight!" roared the half-orc, dripping blood with each lunging, unsteady motion. "Fight me!"

A pitiful gesture and utterly useless, for Gawain was more than powerful enough to defeat a lone, stubborn mercenary. In fact, he _had_ to. His deity willed it.

The paladin tried edging around Glud, who lurched continuously into his path, thrusting and blocking. In this manner, they circled one another, Sir Gawain shaking as though clutched by a fever. Though he tried to slip past, the half-orc would not let him. There were holding spells, of course, but using magic would open a gate for that which desired to cleanse and cauterize the battlefield. Glud wouldn't be paralyzed but immolated, and the others along with him. No magic.

"Stand… aside," Gawain panted, gritting his teeth, hand clamped shivering-taut on the hilt of his sword. But the creature held firm. There was desperation in those blue human eyes, and fierce loyalty, as well. Slowly, the half-orc shook his scarred head.

"Here I am, and here remain, until my friend is dead, or you kill me."

St. George came thundering up, hurtling corpses and downed trees to assist Gawain, while the wyvern took skewed flight to land with a skittering thump before Glud. Both magical beasts were covered in bites and partly-healed slashes. Both were ready to fight; teeth bared and ears back, or slit-eyed and flame-jetting.

Out of time and choices, Gawain drew his sword.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Near at hand, and all but simultaneously-_

Despite the elf's refusal, Frodle worked frantically, using every healing spell he knew. No good. Nothing seemed able to douse that black flame, or reverse the absorbed damage. Then Allat scuttled over in crab-shape, with a flask of elixir and several shy wood nymphs.

"Try this," he urged, reaching past a small, hissing dragon to push the leather flask into Frodle's hands. "They tell me it's neutral, so it ought to work."

The shape-changer had a very weak stomach. He feared illness, wounds and the undead above everything else, and couldn't now bring himself to look at his curse-burnt friend. Just showing up with help had taken high courage, for Allat was actually quite young.

Frodle opened the flask with his teeth and one hand, keeping the other outstretched in continuous, mumbled blessing. The potion was dumped onto Drehn without ceremony, its contents slopped from head to foot, but the northern brew fizzled mostly away. A few drops struck rent and seething flesh, though, and these left splotches of spreading calm. A hopeful sign, if more elixir could be scrounged up and brought.

Allat set off again, returning in moments with a slim, silent larch nymph. Joining her sisters, she channeled power to Frodle, further weakening the grievous curse. Alongside her, shattered bits of flint pulled themselves into the semblance of a quartz-eyed rock giant. In its two massive rubble-hands, the giant supported an orb of ice-flecked stream water. Spirits swirled within it, pale blue and shimmering.

"Thank you," Frodle said to them, accepting the spelled orb (many tens of gallons, floating now in midair). The giant's shard-and-bit head nodded once. Then it collapsed like a landslide back into the ground, spraying them all with sharp, bouncing pebbles. Noisy enough, but Frodle scarcely noticed the resulting few cuts, because Glud had staggered forth to challenge Sir Gawain.

One of Allat's nymph friends next offered up a handful of strange herbs, indicating through gestures that Frodle must add the plants to his rotating sphere of cold water.

"Yes, certainly," the scholar babbled in mid-spell, keeping half his attention on Gawain and Glud. If he could at least get the dark elf healed well enough to move…

Desperate with haste, Frodle took his handful of odd, mossy plants and pushed them through the orb's membrane. It burst at once, drenching Male Elf, Allat, the wyvern and Frodle, but quelling the last of that burning-black flame.

St. George had recovered enough by this time to race to his master's side. His wild charge was noticed at once by the wyvern, which began to heat like a kettle, smelling of scorch and molten dross. With a shrieking, wild bound, it took to the air, lighting before Glud in a slithery shower of stones. The half-orc would not fight alone.

Once more, Frodle stretched forth his hands. This time, he was able to touch the wounded drow. So little time…

"Friend elf," he whispered, grasping the other's shoulders. "Full healing is possible, if you'll only agree to it. You haven't got to ask, or say anything, even. Just…"

The young scholar cast about in his mind for a signal, one the proud elf would accept. Then he shifted position to take his friend's coal-glowing hand, saying,

"All you need do is grip, once. I'll understand."

At first, nothing happened. But then the elf's fingers curved just a little, tightening slightly on Frodle's hand. Good enough.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Darwin, Australia, early evening-_

Congressman Bill Shields of Colorado had come to the South Pacific on a "disaster relief fact-finding mission". He'd flown with several colleagues, and his daughter, Claire. Together, they'd toured the earthquake and tsunami-stricken sites of Hawaii, Tahiti, Ile St. Martin, New Guinea and Japan. Now, courtesy of a stop at the region's Royal Australian Air Force Base, they were visiting beautiful Darwin.

Naturally, their government aircraft had experienced "engine trouble" there, necessitating a stop-over. Several days… or weeks… who knew? Point was, Representative Shields felt well justified in taking a little vacation. He'd earned it. Some of his less open-minded government colleagues might have thought different, but they were more than welcome to remain piously restricted to base.

But as for tall, good-looking Bill Shields… he liked to see something of the world; get a feel for the locals, as it were. Of course, he hadn't felt quite right since meeting that weird stranger, in town. Whole hours he'd lost, apparently on the phone to his military and WorldGov contacts, experiencing strange fugues of time that he couldn't entirely recall… though others did.

As well as possible, Shields kept the matter private. He was up for re-election in little more than a year, and though the polls were hot and his constituents happy, one serious scandal could change absolutely everything. Did he dare visit a psychiatrist? Risk exposure as a total nut case?

These things were on the congressman's mind as he stood leaning against a safety rail, nursing his drink and staring out to sea at Nightcliff. The arrival of Claire and her two friends… dammit, what were their names, again? Amy and someone… _Joyce,_ that was it; fellow Americans who'd managed to keep his rambunctious daughter occupied for several days now. But the girls' noisy approach, with (small world) Jeff Tracy's son, made a welcome distraction from worry.

"Having fun, ladies?" the congressman asked, once he'd shaken young Tracy's hand. Athlete, the boy was, but strangely glum for a teenager kicking around Australia, three-deep in adoring females. Ought to have been strutting like a pup with two tails, Shields thought. Gay, maybe? Red-haired and muscular, Tracy was wearing an interesting wrist watch and obviously new clothes. Hard to tell, these days…

Something happened, then, before Claire and her friends could answer Shields' question. The world blinked forward, leaving Bill Shields alone at that cold metal safety rail, holding Gordon Tracy's wrist watch. The ocean growled and rumbled below, invisible but for its gleaming white froth-caps.

Coming slowly back to himself, Bill shook his head. Had… had he really ordered them to go for a swim? God, _no_… he couldn't have. Could he?

"Hey," he said, dropping his drink and the useless watch. Turning away from the rail and dark sea, Shields began running hard for the distant fair.

_"Hey!_ Claire? _Clairie!_ Has anyone seen my daughter? I need help!"


	58. 58: Mercy

Thanks, Tikatu, ED and Panoply. Edited. :)

**58: Mercy**

_A familiar mortal realm, quite without regular magicks-_

Calls had been placed and bribes arranged; the right people nudged into position with flattery, blackmail and lies. Soon, if all went as predicted, there would be warfare, disaster and bloodshed enough. What was required, still, was for someone to discover and report all of that seismically-vomited gold… and for someone else to lay claim to it.

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_Darwin, Australia, alone in the beach fair at Nightcliff-_

Bright and noisy, filled with confusing sensation and dissonant music, the rollicking commerce flowed on, beneath swaying strands of electric light. The stars were not visible, here, and no-one, surely, could _think_. TinTin was utterly miserable, possessed now of not just a bad head, but a deranged stomach, as well. Most of all, though, she was very much saddened; a solitary creature, unable to blend with the gathered others.

Gordon Tracy was her friend, and she'd hurt him, thrusting the swimmer away like a thing of no value. TinTin wished terribly to make amends, but couldn't think how. Not without yielding to his unspoken wishes, a thought completely at odds with her feelings for Virgil. Though, just a _bit,_ she did wonder… But colors and laughter and nauseating smells pounded away at her, distilling themselves into Alan, who swaggered up to strike a boastful pose.

He was wearing an expensive new surf wetsuit, brightly colored in blue, and patterned across with lightning bolts of acid green. Flinging his arms wide to display the eye-catching design, Alan crowed,

"Oh, yeah! Go ahead and admit it, babe… I'm hot! But don't despair, T! Relax the confuddles, because _yes_, I'm available for a one-time special offer. Just you, me and the steamy, tropical night. Absolutely the chance of a lifetime. Well, babe…? I've got coupons!"

His grin was infuriating, and TinTin would have sent him to place his head in an overflowing rubbish bin, but someone called to her. Not with a voice. Only (faint and with longing) in _thought._

"Hsst! Tais-toi, Alain! Can you not hear?"

But of course, he could not. Neither was the youngest Tracy especially put off by her snub. Flexing the muscles of both arms, the boy ran a hand through his spiky-gelled hair, saying,

"That's just the sound of your heart needing company, baby-doll, which I can provide in spades. So, come and get it or you'll regret it! Seriously."

Only, TinTin wasn't listening. Not to _him,_ at any rate.

"Gordon!" she whispered, sick with dread at the sound of advancing emergency vehicles. "Alain, he is hurt! He needs us!"

"Huh?" the boy was confused, but trotted along beside TinTin as she turned and hurried for the distant sea-cliffs. "What d'you mean, he's hurt? He called you? I didn't hear your wrist comm or phone ringing!"

TinTin shook her head, seizing Alan's hand to speed and quiet him. Others now, too, she sensed; hearing three frantic minds near death from cold and terror, but none as clearly as Gordon's.

Redoubling her speed, TinTin flung herself into the thronging crowd. Headache gone, she cared for nothing at all… _nothing_… but to reach him in time. And, Dieu merci, Alan pressed the face of his wrist comm, for she was now very far beyond thinking.

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_Pale twilight, in a cold and body-strewn valley-_

Sir Gawain of Espan, Knight of the Cross, brought his long-sword level before him, holding it point outermost with both shaking hands. He was…

An awful pressure had built up inside him, squashing breath and speech and (very nearly) life, itself. Yet, there was a man beneath the armour. His chain-mail shirt shifted and flexed over painfully tensed muscles and a torn, thudding heart. In his sword's hilt, the holy symbol glowed fierce, its perfect white light spilling in rays from between the knight's fingers. The gleam was caught and returned by the half-orc's blue eyes, causing the creature to squint, though Gawain did not. Like fire, the whispering light burned away wounds from St. George and Gawain. In moments, it had healed them utterly clean, while Glud continued to bleed. And still, that pressure clamped down, harder than ever, while the reeling half-orc readied his weapons and waited for death.

The wind cut cold around them, its shifting sprites and razor-sharp teeth almost visible. Sensing the blackened creature that lay beyond Glud, St. George grunted and danced his fore-hooves a bit. The warhorse could not understand his master's delay. Did not comprehend that Gawain _knew_ his duty, but chose to refuse it.

The knight took a last shaky breath and then dropped his sword ringing and sparking to the stone-covered ground. Then, in a voice at once quiet and clear, he said,

"No. I will _not_."

He expected to die. Deserved it, certainly, but nothing so kind was his lot. St. George reared up, screaming and striking at air like he'd been savagely speared. The holy symbol's light vanished, and a portal slammed shut within Gawain, ending that terrible pressure. Then, like a fast-ebbing tide, he felt the utter, rending withdrawal of his God.

Gone… along with his armour, the surcoat and warhorse, who simply dissolved into swirling, tiny white motes. Gone.

Gawain trembled and staggered, seeing the rocky-loose ground tilt suddenly up at him. He felt… wanted to be… violently ill, but refused to spew like a child, or weep, either. The half-orc dropped his own weapons and lunged forward, hands extended to catch him, but Gawain twisted free. Last thing… he wanted, right now. No sympathy. No stares.

He looked once at Frodle, still busy over the glowing ember-form of Male Elf. Then, Gawain turned and left them all at a lurching-blind run. Left to be sick somewhere in private. To huddle and wonder, _what now?_

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_Darwin, Australia, at night; far from shore-_

It was pain that woke him to salt-bitter water and heaving cold swells. His mind cleared to darkness, bottomless ocean and a blazing hurt like red-hot claws against his chilled flesh. Floating at sea and surrounded by small glowing bits, he was. With (when he splashed round to look) the lights of Darwin almost too far away to be seen. In and out of sight they bobbed, as he rose and fell with the ocean, but of the city's noise, there was nothing at all. No boats, either.

What he _could_ hear, and saw occasionally, was the slow hopeless clanking of a buoy, flashing its Cyclops green light. Everything else was cold, windy blackness. Had he swum here? Felt tired enough to have done so, certainly. But…

Gordon coughed and trod water, wishing the sting-flames would douse in his chest and arms. Squashing panic, he first thought: _how in the hell?_ And second: _well, this wants a bit of management._ No wrist comm, he discovered, after fumbling at his right arm in black, silky, wet-slapping darkness.

Meanwhile, the razored motes all about him dealt ever more wounds, as though he'd been showered in coals… or volcanic embers. Further out, the buoy continued to sway and clank. Might reach it and cling there, he supposed, but it mightn't be visited much, nor visible from shore. And what if, slashed at by barnacles and unable to haul himself free of the water... what if he drew sharks?

No… nothing for it but to swim, and hope that this wasn't the season for great whites or saltwater crocodiles. He had more than enough to manage with distance, low body temperature and confusion, as it was. But, the lasses? Amy, Joyce and… Claire, was it? Were they out here, as well?

Gordon swam clear of slow-drifting jellyfish, from time to time halting to tread water and call out their names. Nothing but the wind and buoy replied to him, though. Worse, he had no recollection at all how he'd come here. Just the faint memory of an icy voice and bright-glowing eyes.

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_The Battle Valley, just after midnight-_

Male Elf heard bits and edges of words; he heard people and spirits addressing him, but didn't at first respond. Instead, the elf drew himself into a seated position, knees at his chest, head down, still on his stony, impenitent deathbed. And he thought.

He should not have survived. Not after unleashing such horror. Yet, here he was: still breathing, slightly hungry and hurt, wondering where the nearest warm bed and accommodating female were to be found. Made no damn sense, at all. So, for want of anything better to do, the elf paid very close, eyes-shut attention to all that surrounded him.

Frodle murmured another hoarse blessing, and then moved off to heal clomping, sweat-reeking Glud. Meanwhile, Allat squatted nearby in… smelt like griffin form… scratching and snapping at his patchy feathers and pelt. A stream trickled not far away, swirling in hollows, threading past rocks. There was a bit of toothed wind, and branches that creaked in conversation, rather than being just air-pushed.

Turning his head to catch an errant gust, he picked up the sour, charred smell of demon (but not of _her)_. And there, curled up beside him with head tucked below wing, lay his… well, his dragon, the elf supposed. Hell of a thing to have following you around like a puppy. He patted her, though, feeling oddly warm scales that shifted a little with each sleepy breath.

For the rest: wet rock… resinous pine… deep-scented larch… two horses (Dapple and Grayling). But no human scent and no St. George. Gawain, it seemed, had left them. To pray?

Abruptly concerned, the elf opened his eyes and stood up, scattering rocks and waking the dragon. She yawned like a kitten, jaws wide and crystal tongue curling. When he set off across the valley floor, the creature disappeared, taking a head-tucked and sleeping form, tattooed at his pallid left wrist. Nice to know _someone_ was able to rest.

Allat bounded up at a fluttering trot, saying brightly,

"Feeling better, there, vessel of darkness?"

That gesture…? The rude one...? This time, Male Elf applied it, leaving the shape-changer chuckling away in his wake. Glud was anxious, though. Sensing the elf's approach, he stood up from his own healing and turned to face Drehn, silvered with rising moon-glow. Two big, warty hands came down to clasp the elf's shoulders and give him a slight, worried shake.

"You are well enough, elf, to survive this journey and pay me?"

Drehn shrugged.

"If we make any money. Otherwise… I'll shake your hand and write glowing references."

He hadn't wanted to care what they thought of him. Actually was ready to ignore storms of hard words and ride off, alone. What the hell, huh? Who needed the headache and trouble of constant companionship? Yet, when Glud drew forth a last, hoarded cylinder, shredded the top and handed it over, the elf promptly drank half and gave the rest back. Glud bolted the remainder with gusto, then crushed the container, belched, and tossed it aside.

"Conjure more of your cylinder-ales," the half-orc said to him, "and I worry you less about wages."

Right. It had started with Gawain, this uncomfortable collecting of friends. Below, they would have said, _"Why let anything outside yourself matter?"_ But he was starting not to believe that. (And as for the others… his mother's folk… Who the hell knew what they thought? Except that he ought to be killed.)

"I'll work on it," he told poor, crestfallen Glud, who'd apparently hoped for a dozen more cylinders, _now._

Frodle bustled up an instant later, putting herbs away in his scuffed leather satchel. He was a bit singed and obviously tired, but still looked as though it was a good thing… not troublesome at all… that the elf was alive. Something needed to be said, and it was for Drehn to speak first. He knew that.

"You… heal effectively, Frodle." And then, because he'd learnt to do so, Male Elf added, "Thank you."

The halfling regarded him with a warm, weary smile and tilted head.

"I was glad to do it, whether you believe that or not, friend elf. You've blocked your own nature for a very long time, only freeing it to save us from demons. And for that, we thank _you."_

Drehn wasn't sure how to respond to this, so he just nodded and changed the subject to something infinitely more manageable.

"Where is Gawain?" he asked, restlessly looking around.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Darwin, Australia, late that same night-_

A hue and cry had been raised, but Gordon entirely failed to notice. Instead, swiftly and mechanically, burning with dozens of stings, he swam. The currents weren't helpful, approaching shore at rather a slant, but at least they tended for land. He'd have perished, otherwise; sunk out of sight in a vast, hungry ocean, spiraling downward as food for the lobsters and crabs, with perhaps the odd mouthful shaken and torn out by sharks.

Not to be dwelt on, though. Not here. So, he free-styled rhythmically, breathing at intervals, treading water from time to time… to rest… and check progress. Buoy had faded behind, but the shore lights grew brighter… sometimes stabbed through with whirling lances of red. Pity… too far to call out, though.

Water bobbed cold, up and back, bitter with salt in his mouth and his throat. But that faintly heard rumble was surf; the welcome dank smell, seaweed and shore-life. Nearly safe, then... not quite come to the end of his innings.

Dangerous to float and cramp up, so he coughed out the water, gasped a _'Hail, Mary'_, and then slid back into position. Once more he swam, talking to TinTin the entire way (though she wasn't keen on him). No matter; thought of her anyhow. As a goal. Something beautiful waiting, with scalding hot tea and a towel. Just, steady on. Bit further, was all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Midworld, after a short and unwilling confession-_

What shouldn't have mattered, surprisingly very much did. Gawain had refused the command of his deity… had given up everything… for one wretched-dark exile. He was gone.

Drehn knew this, now, and it troubled him. The others used indirect words to blunt what had happened, but the truth was sharp and ugly: Male Elf had brought low what was good, true and clean. Whether witting or not, he'd destroyed it.

"I'll find him," he told Frodle next morning, refusing even Glud's company in seeking the missing Cross-Knight.

"We could wait," Allat protested. He had to raise his voice quite a bit to be heard over a landslide of roaring flints, because the ground was rising to cover that mounded horde of emptied demons.

"I'm sure he'll come back, a hundred percent re-goodness-ed! And somebody needs to be in charge while Sir G's away! _We're_ too young and ol' Glugly's too stupid! You've _got_ to stay!"

The thief had taken an extremely round and large-eyed form; like a puffy, spherical blue rabbit. Forming a sudden mouth, he said,

"Just don't hurl any curses at us, and everything's square. Okay? Right? Hello?"

Annoyed, the elf turned aside to look at Frodle, who was shaking his curly dark head. Didn't protest the idea aloud, though. Give him that much.

"Keep an eye on things," Drehn told Glud and the halfling, meanwhile stooping to seize Gawain's cold, darkened sword. "I won't be long."

_Promises..._


	59. 59: Reeled In

Edited

**59: Reeled In**

_Nightime, off Darwin, Australia-_

You could be _that_ close, getting on like a house on fire, when all at once the situation altered. (And he'd competed in swim meets enough to know.) A severe cramp, sometimes, or a slight change of body alignment and breathing rhythm, was all it took to lose the match. Mysterious things, they were; more mental than physical.

…And such befell Gordon, now.

Those eyes still burned through his thoughts, despite all that he said in his heart to TinTin, and they bade him turn back round for the open sea. That way was death, and he knew it. Yet, Gordon found himself halting to tread water; within reach of safety, but unable to quite continue.

His body heat plunged the moment he stopped swimming, while the pain of his stung flesh began to flare up. Not that it had died much, before, but he now had fewer distractions. Stripes of blistering dark flesh commenced to form, like scars from the ocean's own flamethrower, and even upright, it was terribly hard to breathe.

But the stars were out, and some were moving, swooping to scan the water below with strong, probing searchlights. _Coast Guard helicopters,_ he thought. Boats, too, launched from shore by the dozens.

Not to be robbed, those eyes burned again in his thoughts. Wanted him to dive below the surface, they did; dive under and breathe deep. But Gordon tried hard as he could to ignore their command; not impossible, because the pain of his stings drowned out pretty near everything else.

Silken black swells lifted and dropped him. His arms sculled and his feet slowly kicked, just like the people he'd rescued from that plane crash. He fancied that was the way a shark would see you, coming up from below, like that.

(…And again, the command, stronger than before. He didn't _want_ to dive down, though, not with clattering-loud helicopter blades and a slow-swinging searchlight so near. Tracking his ID chip, maybe…)

Couldn't think, couldn't recall a bloody thing, when the blue-white beam and roaring sound encountered him, water flattening round to be hurled off as spray. He didn't wave for rescue, but someone came down on a harness and line, anyhow, dropping from above like a spider. Splashed in just a few metres from Gordon and swam over… calling at him to remain calm and prepare for a lift.

Joked… something about odd time to be practicing for the Brisbane swim meet… but the voice and eyes in Gordon's head wanted him to take the man's knife and slash his way free. Barely just didn't, focusing instead upon deep, charring pain, apocalyptic noise and back-blasting rotor-wash.

The rescue swimmer called above to his pilot,

"Got him, cap! Conscious, but disoriented… in need of treatment for sea jelly stings and exposure, looks like."

A barely responsive Gordon was strapped into harness, and then the diver took hold and called again, saying,

"Haul away!"

They were drawn from the water, spinning and ascending on a taut, thrumming line. Gordon felt nauseous and bleary, battered by loud, down-blasting air and fierce light. Some twelve whirling metres they went up, and then another Coastie pulled them within, hauling both men through the helicopter's wide-open door. There followed strap-down, then an air mask and oxygen, with scraping, vinegar rinse and a firm bandage. Hurt, though. Still bloody hurt.

He saw one of the girls, Clairie. Wet and bedraggled but warmly wrapped in a grey wool blanket, she inched across the compartment to Gordon's side. When she'd reached him, the lass strapped in again and rattled on a bit, patting his tightly-clenched hand, sniffling, and occasionally dabbing at her own streaming nose. No hard feelings.

With the passengers stowed, their helicopter tipped sideways, banking away for the Royal Darwin Hospital like a tilted and zipping dragonfly. Gordon was safe, but with nothing else to concentrate on, the whole world became those stings; a hurt that burned clear through painkillers, vinegar-rinse and exhaustion, blocking the command to crawl free of his bonds and leap from the Coast Guard aircraft.

This was pain on a very different scale; like every nerve in his chest and left shoulder had been set alight, from tip to spinal cord. He'd have cheerfully skinned himself to be rid of it... but, no such luck. Barely conscious, Gordon vomited sea water, began shivering violently, and slipped toward shock.

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Landing… change in rotor pitch… lift and thump as he was moved from… would have said "thank you", but… dawning sky, then inside, rolling beneath blue-white-bright squares. Face over his own; swarthy, concerned… looked rather Vatupelean… hopefully not peckish, though… Asked him, but no, a doctor. Said… wanted to tell rescue swimmer… "Well done"… couldn't have improved on it, much… himself.

"I'll let him know," Dr. Boanyoo promised his delirious young patient. Then, as he ordered up a round of testing, antivenin and meds, the physician smiled and added, "I'd quiet down and save some strength for the Brisbane Invitational, if I was you, lad. The way Merrick's been training, you're going to need it."

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_Later-_

Gordon remained in the critical-care ward for nearly three days (but only two-and-a-half, by his count). Pain dimmed and flared like a thunderstorm, beating away at Boanyoo's walls of stiff medication, but not ever quite bashing through. (And thank God for that.) His family, the doctor and TinTin were in and out during this time, as was a worried Congressman Shields. Sometimes Gordon was lucid enough to speak to them, though mostly not. TinTin cried and told him repeatedly that she was very sorry, though he'd forgotten what for. Pity. Most of the hours prior to his swim were blank as paper, but perhaps it would come to him, later. And she was very, very beautiful.

One morning, when his medication levels had been sufficiently reduced, the young man woke to find himself bandaged, IV-ed and lying in an airy private hospital room. He was hedged about with flowers, balloons, stuffed dolphins, at least three hand-lettered "Get Well" banners from local schools and swim clubs… and a very much hard-at-work, laptop-focused John. At Gordon's bed-rustling movement, the astronaut glanced up.

"Feeling better?" he asked, straightening a bit in his bedside armchair.

Gordon nodded.

"Good, because… if I could ask a stupid question… what the _hell_ were you thinking? I'm not Mister Natural-Pulse, or anything, but I know better than to go for a midnight swim in the Timor Sea. Near as we can figure, the only thing that saved you is, it's off-season for major predators. Were you drunk? Trying to impress the females?"

Gordon had to clear his throat before answering.

"Not drunk, John, my oath on it. I'm… actually not quite certain what happened. At least, not entirely."

John poured him some iced water from the bedside drink-pitcher, then grunted and returned to work. Said Gordon, after downing two glassfuls,

"The lasses all right? Joyce an' Amy, I mean?" He'd already seen Claire.

"Yeah. Discharged yesterday, into the loving arms, etc. The congressman's daughter got out even sooner, with not much worse than a bad scare. Shields is a friend of dad's, fortunately. Otherwise, we might have ended up with a lawsuit, which…"

His last few words were timed to match John's relentless key pressing.

"…we… would… win. There: public statement number four's away. Officially, per dad and Shields, you were exhausted after a long flight, and you accepted a stranger's dumb-ass dare. He subsequently disappeared. The stranger, that is."

"Oh," Gordon replied, for want of anything cleverer. Thankfully, John was still talking.

"They plan to release you in a few days, after which I advise avoiding the spotlight. Half of Australia thinks you're just nervous about a swim meet. The rest are convinced you can't hold your liquor. Probably for the best, because the last thing this place needs is another Cyclone Tracy."

As both speculations were deeply insulting, Gordon sat farther up and changed the subject. Not to come straight out and inquire about TinTin, he ventured,

"Been here all night, have you?"

John closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. He looked awfully like Jeff at the moment, though Gordon didn't say so aloud. Opening his eyes again, the astronaut shook his blond head.

"No. I took over from Scott, but I'm due to go off shift and phone dad with your status in, um… fifteen minutes. He's just left for an airframe production site conference in Colorado… with Lady Penelope. And, uh... Scott's had to reschedule his visit to San Francisco, but I don't think he's mad, or anything."

Good to know, as a testy and irritable, over-worked Scott would likely assign him a 300-word essay: _Wine, Women and Water- A Deadly Combination?_

Something else occurred to Gordon, then, and he rather guiltily blurted,

"Your mission! John, you've not been scrubbed on my account, have you? F'r stayin' so long away from Houston?"

His brother glanced over, again; an indecipherable query in those blue-violet eyes. Something in Gordon's expression or bed-rail clutching posture must have satisfied him, though, because the astronaut decided to answer.

"No," he admitted. "I'm still onboard. I can get a lot of work done remotely, and the serious training doesn't begin for another few weeks. Kind of works out, actually, because the fewer suits I run into, the less I have to make nice. But…" he smiled a little, here. "Honestly, if my last name wasn't Tracy, they'd have probably said "screw it", and found themselves another pilot. Pete McCord and family history are pretty influential forces, though."

Speaking of influence…

As John muttered that he ought to keep the nurses happy by selecting his luncheon and dinner, Gordon asked another hesitant question. Picking up the menu sheet, he circled a few items at random and said,

"John… would you think me entirely daft if I said… that I thought someone had _hypnotized_ me into takin' that swim?"

Once again, the aquanaut recalled shining gold eyes and an icy-calm voice pushing him deeper death-ward. John frowned.

"You _and_ the girls?" he inquired. (Important, because Amy, Joyce and Claire were the weak spot in their "drunk, stupid dare" scenario.)

The red-head nodded once more, his face and body flushing hot enough to briefly rekindle those bandaged stings.

"Sounds absolutely potty, I know… but I truly believe someone _told_ me t' go in; that I was meant not t' wake from compulsion till I'd got too far t' come back. Only th' jellyfish mucked things up for… for whomever sent me out there."

Gordon waited anxiously for the astronaut's opinion, but John's first response was a seemingly careless shrug.

"I guess it's possible. Back at Princeton, someone used to try hypnotizing me, but it never worked."

After several laughing attempts, Drew had announced that he didn't have enough imagination. _Whatever_. Maybe he just refused to let her control him.

…But talk of hypnosis made John's wrist sting and his thoughts turn to the Hood. He was dead, though… wasn't he? Very much double-plus-un-good territory. Not the time or the place to discuss it, though. They weren't private enough.

Abruptly restless, John put aside his laptop and rose from the leather armchair. Placing a spare cell phone on the bed, he said,

"TinTin and Alan are due any minute, now. I'm going outside to call dad, and I'll mention what you said in my report. Hit me on the "all-quiet" channel, if Dr. Boanyoo shows up." And then, as almost a head-shaking afterthought,

"I'm glad you're okay, Gordon… but next time, no offense, I'll get my own damn pizza."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gordon didn't realize that his brother had left him a present until after the astronaut was some minutes gone. At the same time that a rattling, steaming trolley of breakfast dishes (and two autograph-seekers) arrived, Gordon noticed a parcel left behind on John's chair.

Nothing for him, as he hadn't been checked out yet to eat, but he signed both orderlies' papers. Didn't chat much, though, being tired still and a bit out of sorts. They'd food to deliver and rounds to make, and so didn't linger, freeing Gordon to reach past the bedrail in a bother of rolling tray-tables, stiff bandages and arm-fastened tubes.

Hmmm... Plain cardboard box… no card, wrapping paper or address… and also no direct presentation. But John very rarely gave away presents. Ordinarily, he'd just leave them lying about in one's path, and then shrug off responsibility, afterward.

Curious, Gordon lifted the taped-down lid for a look within. Inside, still in its shop casing, was a green Play Station Nano Mark II; a palm-sized gaming super-computer. Apparently, John was _quite_ glad he'd survived.

He'd worked the thing no more than a quarter way free of its packing, when Alan exploded into the room with TinTin and a tropically-shirted Scott. His brothers' presence, Gordon could have borne with, but the swimmer found himself very much embarrassed to be seen by TinTin Kyrano. Alan shot here and there about the room, parting curtains and raising blinds (third level, fancy that) while Scott first shook Gordon's hand, and then settled down in the armchair with an e-print newspaper.

TinTin came to Gordon's bedside, making him terribly conscious of bandages, hospital garb and mussed red hair, none of which she seemed to notice. Instead, though he thwarted her attempt to take his hand, he got a soft kiss on the cheek and a warm, whisper-ticklish,

"I felt those things that you said to me, Gordon, and I…"

She might have said anything. Anything at all, but Scott lowered the paper (currently set to the business page) and cleared his throat for attention.

"How're you feeling?" he asked, seeming at once worried and ready to pitch heavy, sharp objects.

"Better, thanks ever so much f'r askin'."

"Right."

The paper started to rise again, then halted while Scott continued speaking.

"Grandma, Virgil and Fermat said to tell you to get well soon. Brains thinks you should have known better. Dad sends his regrets, but he couldn't get out of that factory-siting conference without losing his shirt to the unions. So, in the meantime, I'm supposed to make sure you're healthy, and then deliver a serious lecture. But I've made arrangements to split the responsibility with John. How'd he do?"

"Oh…"

It was difficult to think, with the unknown end to TinTin's sentence whirling hot round his skull, but…

"Quite stern," Gordon assured the dark-haired pilot. "I felt utterly wretched all through his tirade, and he only gave over when m' vital signs crashed. Don't think I could stand another such. Really."

"Bullshit."

Scott shook his head, smiling a mixture of tolerance, resigned disgust and amusement.

"He said something like: _That was dumb. Don't do it again. _Am I right?"

Many things were, just then… despite the fact that Alan had already got to his new PS Nano.


	60. 60: Renewed Acquaintance

Thanks, Panoply (especially for the advice) and Tikatu. Edited.

**60: Renewed Acquaintance**

_Dawn, in a cleansed northern valley of Midworld-_

There was snow coming on. They could smell it, heavy and cold as wet iron. Clouds were piling up in the northeast, towering dark; gilt with rising pale sunlight. The winds from that direction held many fierce sprites, but the purple-dark west was a solemn graveyard of barren hills.

Glud lifted his gaze from the spear he'd been sharpening, snuffed at the air, and then sneezed. _There was much more than snow on that wind…_

Setting aside whetstone and cloth, the half-orc tested his spear's new-sharpened head on a bit of stained leather. Then, satisfied with the resulting cut, he set down the weapon, put away his tools, and got up.

_…there was trouble and dread._

"Little man," he called to Frodle, who'd been crouched on the stony ground, staring into the color-shot flames of their campfire. When the halfling looked over, Glud continued.

"In your prophecy book, is there not a charm for retuning a knight to his power?"

Frodle started to speak, then frowned in gnawing and uffish thought. Spelling up the flames again (no burning of wood, here, for health reasons) he mused,

"I'm not sure, friend Glud. Such a thing would be most unusual. In fact, I've never heard of a successfully managed Redemption. And it's not been tried for…"

The halfling's speech soon trailed off into muttering, but once fixed on a scent, he was nearly unshakeable. He bounded to his feet, stepping over a slowly coalescing Allat-puddle to fetch his staff, satchel and tome. First spreading a blanket, Frodle reverently laid down his book.

The big leather tome sprang open at a touch. Its lock clicked over and the glowing white pages flipped to a single leaf in the back, deeply stained with carmine and ink.

"Paladins… Redemption of…"

There was _always_ an answer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere, alone and bereft-_

Sir Gawain wandered for a time, unable to rest. So deep inside lay his wound, the knight was left all but blinded and gasping. Abandoned to drift where he would

_What else was there?_

Various sprites and creatures offered such food as a winter-touched landscape might cobble together (chiefly herbs, withered hawthorn berries and disinterred roots) but Gawain had little appetite. He bent to the springs and ate what he found cupped in hollows of sun-warmed stone simply not to offend.

_Done enough of that, already._

Trees moved about, and wove their branches for shelter, when the snow he'd smelt made good its threats and arrived. Then there was nothing to do but wait, unclaimed. Nothing whatever.

He'd got the Call early. Still remembered it, too; as vividly as another might recall his first blooding at war, or the first tumbled lass. King Lot of Orkney was not a wealthy man, nor especially powerful. He was a paladin, himself, moreover, and therefore limited in the scope of his ambitions. Lot's pride was his sons and lone daughter. A splendid collection of heirs, they were: grim Artor, bold Gaheris, gentle and poetic Lotar, scheming Elrick, wise Pier, laughing Agravaine, merry, dimpled Rayne… and young Gawain (of no particular distinction, at first, besides being red haired and dead last).

Coming backward into the world, Gawain had all but killed his royal mother. She was saved by her wedded lord's power, but the boy would be their last... and that was troublesome. Child after healthy child had been born, but not one received the Call, though Lot continued to hope and to pray.

They'd been at chapel when it finally took place; Gawain squirming a bit as he knelt on the hard stone floor. They'd a pew, at least, unlike the bare-headed and weary peasant folk gathered behind them. But Gawain was not yet four, and hadn't much patience with arcane, priestly sing-song and group responses.

He toyed with floor-strewn rushes until Pier reproved him with a sharp pinch. Then the boy scooted out of reach and jostled Rayne, disrupting her pleasant daydreams of peril and rescue. She, too, scowled at him. He hated chapel.

Afterward, as his dark-haired family rose from their stiff, creaking knees to greet the priests and peasantry, Gawain wandered away. Across the candlelit chapel he went, past pillars of dwarf-worked stone and a few elven jewels from the first great war. Then, almost forgetting to bow at the altar, he came at last to a high, glassed window.

Small, it was, because only a fool would provide his enemies an unsecured means of entry. High up, too, and shaped like a seven-petaled flower carved into stone. The glass it contained was greenish and bubble-flecked, and it played shifting games with the light. A shaft of altered sunlight shone through, with bits of dust and chaff dancing in it. The window was carefully placed so that… at certain times of day and year… the light fell upon a certain bit of floor; an inlaid tile from lands eastward.

Gawain liked to look at this tile, with its flowing, ancient blue script that sometimes caught fire and heatlessly burned. It was beautiful, and one could pass one's hand in safety through the leaping blue flame, as Agravaine sometimes made a great show of doing with candles (there was some trick to that; all Gawain ever got was burnt, and Rayne called him a little fool).

This day, the light did not fall square on his favourite tile, but Gawain squatted down on his heels to trace out the script, anyhow. Knew it by heart, he did. And though he could not read the words, and his father would not decipher them, their shape and grace moved him.

It was then, halfway through the third sigil, that light itself took cold, gleaming shape and began to speak. The words did not sound through the air. They reverberated within him, mighty as a tolling bell.

"…..." they said, with a weight and a force that came near to squashing the big-eyed, face-tilted-up child.

"…..." they repeated. And there, short in breath and stature, Gawain accepted.

"Yes," he replied in a clear little whisper. "I will serve."

But all that was past and gone, now. Thrown away with both hands.

His father had sensed his son's Calling, and strode over to take him up, joyfully; tossing the boy skyward many times and catching him. Beard-scratched, pummeled and enveloped, he was. Not just by Lot, or his beaming mother and quarrelsome siblings, either. King Lot convened the other Paladins of his order at once, and they, too, embraced him.

"We are seven, again," laughed big-muscled Sir Argonne.

"Or, at least, six and a half," Sir Kent kindly teased, mussing the boy's red hair.

Lot was visibly glowing, holding Gawain forth whilst one paladin after another came up to greet and acknowledge him. It was a grave thing, but also joyous, the making of a new Cross-Knight.

…And the breaking of one hurt beyond burns, poison or cutting. He'd gladly have died, had anyone been good-hearted enough to kill him.

There had been training, of course; lore to be mastered, but that came in bits and pieces, and always from a different teacher. At seven, as was his people's way, young Gawain was packed off to Lord Morcar for fosterage.

Poor, exasperated Morcar had already fostered three of Lot's enormous litter. He was not much in the mood for a fourth, and so Gawain was given as page to the Lady Kait. There, the boy learnt manners and courtly behavior, receiving as much affection as schooling from his doting mistress.

"Look how cunning!" she'd cooed, upon Gawain's presentation by Morcar. Stooping to kiss his forehead, she'd said, "and so very _serious!"_

It was hard, leaving his own royal mother and having to be manly about it, but Lady Kait (red-haired, like him) soothed much of the hurt. And, of course, there was little Anelle, who'd grown into something lovely and wild as a wood nymph.

…and who now would surely despise him.

He hadn't allowed himself to cry, then, sleeping alone on a pallet at the foot of his mistress' grand bedstead. Perhaps she sensed when his trouble was deepest, though, because Kait inevitably woke in the night to request milk from the kitchen, or another pillow, whenever he worst wanted mum. Then they'd sit up, and she might read to him from the book of days, or work at her sewing.

Morcar taught Gawain the way of hunting and arms, horses and men, once he'd grown tall enough to take sword as a squire. He learnt to fight, and to bear wounds with courage… but healing, and other powers, came from deeper within. Grim Morcar had little patience for "holy folderol", but he didn't interfere when the other paladins occasionally came by to instruct the boy. After all, healing the sick and injured was a damned handy trick.

…One vanished away, like the rest of his light-granted powers.

His raising to full knighthood had taken place at the Battle of Servern Bridge. Morcar had done it, having been wounded in the neck by a black-fletched orc arrow. His Lordship's men-at-arms were dropping about him faster than Gawain could raise them. Prince Edwyn's horn was but faint in the distance, while the taunting dark foe poured onto that ancient stone bridge from both sides.

Perhaps expecting to die, Morcar had bidden his twelve-year-old squire kneel down. It was a very short, pithy ceremony, at the end of which the former squire had risen again as Sir Gawain of the Span (later shortened to Espan, as it sounded less… bridge-y). But with knighthood came the full, blazing might of a paladin, and death to swarms of horrified orcs. _They'd_ come, too… the six brother-knights of his order. As they came to him, now.

One by one, through separate magic portals, the other Cross-Knights emerged to enact judgment. Sir Argonne, Sir Kent, Sir Merrick, Lord Ravencall, Sir Cuthbert… and worst of all, his father, King Lot. They paced through their glittering portals in spotless armor, astride horses of fierce, prideful strength. All but Ravencall, who bestrode a great, snarling cat.

Quiet as phantoms, the six paladins rode amid scattered dark pines and hissing snow to confront Gawain. They drew rein in silence, forming a loose half-circle before him; mounts blowing vapor, weapons shining. His heart cracked like ice as Gawain dropped to his knees in the snow, head down. He knew very well what was coming.

There were rules, ceremony and dialogue… or should have been. But Lot, gazing down at his dishonored son, spoke unexpectedly. Instead of invoking the will of the Order, the grey-haired king said,

"We… came in search of you, Gawain, having felt something happen."

His breath plumed with frost and his voice quavered, though the king strove manfully to contain himself.

"…And instead, We found _this,_ with your sword."

This? The young knight managed to lift his head and look upward, gazing in turn at six pale, grieving faces. Lot gestured abruptly, opening another portal to admit a deeply-ensorcelled Drehn. The elf drifted witless through Lot's mage-door, stepping from No-Place to sparse, snowy woods. Gawain's dead sword was bound across his back with a looped silver cord, for some reason.

Healed, he was, but chaotic as ever in soul. That much, Gawain could sense of him. Pointing at the darkened weapon, Lot leaned forward in his ornate saddle and urged,

"It was stolen, We assume?"

There were ashes and darkness where power should have been… but no lies. Very slowly, pitying his father's strained, hopeful face, Gawain shook his head.

"My liege… no. It was _dropped_, because my other choice was to slaughter a friend."

Lot's face stiffened. Something in his seam-webbed brown eyes simply doused, then: pride, love… hope. And he whispered,

"I see."

The king now glanced round his half-circle of fellow paladins. Silently, grimly, all were agreed. So, the weary old man sat back in his creaking saddle, gathered himself and declared,

"By your actions, then, you are no more of this Order, and… and no more Our son. Henceforth, who speaks your name before Us, shall die."

Probably, they made some noise and bother about leaving, but Gawain never noticed it. Instead, he was raised to his feet in a wretched parody of knighting by the recovered drow; no more Sir Gawain, and nobody's son.

"This is yours," said the elf, when Gawain had stood there awhile, numb as frozen beef. Drehn held forth the dead sword, one slim hand deliberately concealing a charred hollow at the hilt. The holy symbol was burnt quite away, and the elf wanted to spare his friend's feelings by hiding the loss. But Gawain shook his head, no.

"Swords're a mark of knighthood," he muttered. "And I'm no longer worthy t' carry one."

Drehn scowled. Almost, he exploded with: _Don't tell me I've hauled this damn piece of orc-sticking trash all this way, for nothing!_

But he mastered himself. Instead of snapping, the blond elf switched tactics. Shrugging, he made as though to re-don the weapon, saying,

"Fine. _I'll_ take it, then, but I'm a hell of a lot less worthy than you are. So, from an…"honor"… perspective, it's certainly come down in the world. Just to let you know."

Oddly enough, the elf's ill-tempered threat nearly worked. Like a sleep-walker, Gawain reached for his empty-dark blade, which Drehn switched round to offer hilt-foremost. He might have taken it, even, had not something happened. Just as his fingertips brushed cold and leather-wrapped metal, lines of red fire began drawing themselves on the ground.

Once more, Gawain's sword fell, striking rock with a dull, thudding _clang._ Drehn was blasted off of his feet by a force which erupted from below, but he rolled to a ready crouch beside Gawain. All around them, red lines bent, came together and then shot forth diagonally, melting the snow and forming the shape of an inverted pentagram.

"Oh, shit," the elf muttered, while his friend stood blankly watching.

They were trapped at the figure's precise center by flaring red walls which neither dared cross. Gawain knew better, and Drehn did, too (having once lost his soul that way).

At each of the pentagram's points, the ground split wide to emit a droning swarm of black flies. Five mounted demon knights formed from their buzzing clouds, smiling in frozen-corpse peace. Their skeletal, fire-maned steeds pawed at the ground, raking up stones like a flock of hen-griffins. …If a griffin were black and mad-eyed, with the poisonous tail of a giant scorpion.

The knights of hell wore black armor that crackled and blazed at each seam, but their faces were eerily calm. Dead calm. They had no breath to plume, but the manes of their horses threw weird, leaping shadows from the riders, themselves, and those curved, flexing scorpions' tails.

Their leader, stationed at the cardinal point, turned his marble-white face toward Drehn.

"_Dark one_,_"_ he whispered, _"this is no business of yours, nor your Mistress."_

A caution. But the elf rose fluidly, looked once at Gawain, and then shrugged again.

"You haven't been paying attention," he said. "I gave all that up. Besides… there's nothing else going on out here. Nothing to drink and no females. May as well fight."

With a fixed, unwavering smile, the demon said,

"_You were warned, drow. You will die enslaved and suffering."_

And then, as Gawain waited numbly, he spoke again.

"_We have unfinished business, Sir Knight."_

Added the next,

"…_For you are thrice welcomed,"_

Followed by a pale-smiling comrade,

"…_And wanted,"_

Spoke the fourth,

"…_By our Master,"_

Then the last,

"…_Below."_

Keeping his eyes on the cardinal demon-knight, Gawain stooped to reclaim a fallen and dishonored sword. Like the elf, he would make what trouble he could.


	61. 61: Misdirection

"Real world", so to speak. Thanks for the reviews of 60. Edited. (But replies still forthcoming. Honest.)

**61: Misdirection**

This realm was limited compared to the other, yet there was deep and subtle promise, here; a victory that would have to be hunted and striven for. No matter… a kill after struggle was thrice as satisfying, and fear so much sweeter, up close.

Without magic, he'd been forced to resurrect a recently emptied persona; one violently terminated and with reason to hate the shadows of his Midworld pawns. Ironically, these pallid shades would not recognize him. They would not be prepared… and yet damage done _here_ would very much weaken their Midworld exemplars, just as war on this Earth would be reflected in realm after terror-seared realm.

The thought was extremely pleasant. There was danger, though, that he'd lose himself in the petty financial concerns of this "Hood". That his essence would twine with the mortal's, forgetting the all-important Game. Thus, speed was required, together with caution, forethought… and allies.

_Yes,_ the demon recalled, glancing at its tall host as they stalked past a long hotel mirror. There was _another_ wanderer here; one doubtless plotting its next move just as furiously as the Hooded One, himself. But time and the Game would decide whether they helped one another, or instead fought to capture, defeat and destroy. Here, after all, such direct conflict was not only possible, it sang to his hungry and thrumming core. And what better victim could there be than a fellow immortal?

Meanwhile (as the new-waked Hood nursed these strange thoughts), a certain Mr. Cleeves returned to his job despite what had seemed a fatal heart attack. Fully recovered, he was, and possessed of an astonishing zeal for his work. In fact, Aldous Cleeves hardly left his WorldGov office at all, working far into the night on that International Rescue problem.

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_Darwin, Australia-_

Gordon Tracy received a great deal of attention in the hours and days that followed his "accident", just not of the sort that he'd wanted. Orderlies came by with alarming frequency to check and record his vital signs, renew the IV bag, dole meds or change his bed sheets. In the last few days, Gordon managed to walk a bit, trailing his pole and tubing, but he still felt terribly sore and weakened; soft as cake.

On the bright side, he had the near-constant company (if not round-the-clock guardianship) of his brothers: Scott, Alan and John. The island folk called often; Jeff whenever he was able to steal time from his Colorado business conference. On three or four occasions, at any rate. Looked rather stern, he did, but managed not to shout or lecture. Gordon appreciated that.

TinTin was a frequent visitor, and always seemed on the verge of confessing some vast and heart-tearing secret, if only they'd been let alone for more than just a moment. What he'd not have given to stop time, take her hands, and let the lass _speak._ He'd have listened, what ever it was, and accepted it, too. Or come up with some sort of solution, if that's what the matter wanted. His life was an untidy mass of unspoken yearning and missed opportunities, however, and the only confessions Gordon heard that week came from Amy and Joyce.

The two brightly-clad American lasses darted up to his room for a surprise visit one afternoon, arriving after Scott, Alan and TinTin had gone off in search of a meal. (Gordon scarcely bothered with his. Oddly enough, not hungry.) They arrived with a rather spectacular amount of noise and bouncing, parting to come at the injured swimmer from both sides of his hospital bed and deliver simultaneous, very _loud_, side-of-face kisses.

"Mmmmmmmm-_wah!"_

Near deafened him, they did, though the sheer, warm novelty of the thing… two at once… _Well._

"Hi, Gordon!" (Golden Amy)

"Hi!" (Joyce, with her straight, dark hair and round face)

The blonde grinned frankly at her best friend and Gordon, both.

"That was pretty cool, wasn't it? It's like a new sport: synchronized kissing. We've been practicing."

"On a cantaloupe," Joyce supplied helpfully, suppressing a storm of sudden giggles. "But you're not as bumpy!"

"Well, I…" Gordon floundered a bit. Just how did one respond to fruit comparisons? "I shave rather more often. So… that's hardly fair t' th' melon, is it?"

Amy laughed, hugged him impulsively (but with just a bit of a wriggle thrown in for good measure) and then backed off as quick as though bee-stung. Possibly his startled yelp had something to do with it, but he couldn't really help reacting. She'd pressed against his bandaged shoulder, arm and IV needle.

"I'm sorry!" Amy gasped anxiously, green eyes gone suddenly enormous.

"We brought crossword books and Sudoku puzzles!" Joyce upended an entire sack of magazines and booklets onto Gordon's lap from three feet above him, squeaking, "Look! Manga!"

"No harm done," he managed to assure them, after a moment. But he'd watch for attack now from above, either side, or all three together, for Amy Smith and Joyce Gilbert were an unintentionally dangerous pair. To forestall anymore gifts or affection, he asked,

"You're all right, then? After what happened, I mean?"

All at once, they became very serious. Amy twisted her blonde hair-ends, while Joyce made herself into a head-lowered and shoulders-hunched packet of shame. They looked at one another, and then Amy said,

"Yeah… kinda-sorta. But that's why we came up here, Gordon, besides cheering you up. To, um… to say thank you."

"…For not telling on us!" Joyce cut in, shooting the mystified swimmer a deeply beseeching glance.

"You won't, will you?" Amy reclaimed his attention by taking hold of his shoulder (more carefully, this time). "You won't tell on us? Honest and for real, Gordon, we didn't mean to! It just slipped out."

Gordon was too confused to do more than shake his head, no. Clearly, the Americans recalled something more than he did about that mysterious swim. Still… they couldn't have meant any real harm.

"I don't want to get in trouble," Amy pled breathlessly, her blonde hair glowing gold now in the slow-shifting window light. "'Cause, _omigod_, my folks would just _kill_ me! They'd never, ever, _ever_ let me go out without them, again. EVER!"

Joyce nodded solemnly, just as concerned about impending parental savagery as her friend.

"They'd kill us, and then kill us some more. And _then,_ kill for real with killing. Like, _hurtfully._ Gordon! We… could… lose… our… _phones!_ They might even cut off TV!"

"Right. Fate worse than death, I'm sure," he replied, which prompted an immediate talking-over-each-other, wildly serious attempt to convince him that death and loss were, indeed, imminent.

"It's all right," Gordon said to them, once he could slip a word in, polished-up, sideways. After all, what else was he expected to do? He'd no clear memory of events, anyhow. Shifting those injurious books off his lap and then changing position a bit, he added,

"Not a word from me about anythin'. I swear it. But, if you'd not mind tellin' me… exactly what did you _do_?"

"Guess you don't remember, huh? Well, the water was pretty rough. Way worse than Claire's dad said it would be…"

Amy looked abruptly miserable; limp as a Mylar balloon, two weeks after the party.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, giving him a very TinTin-like peck on the cheek. "I didn't mean to call you a chicken, Gordon. It _was_ stupid to go out there, like that. I'm just glad we didn't get hurt, or you, either… and I'm really, _really_ glad you didn't tell on us."

"We'll cheer for you at the next Olympics and stuff, no matter _how_ cute the other boys are," Joyce offered, as gratefully as though she'd just been freed from prison. "And we'll come up and say hello, even! I already told my dad he has to buy swim tickets, or _else!"_

Gordon nodded. He smiled automatically, but had real trouble focusing on their chattersome promises or the telly they quite soon switched on. Called him a coward, had they? Possibly urging him into the water when commonsense slowed his step? Yet, why would the lasses then follow him in? According to his brothers, the wave-battered pair had been plucked from a nearly-submerged rock, while Claire had been found almost a mile away, fighting a savage riptide. Even stranger: how was he supposed to interpret the behavior of Congressman Shields… who'd apparently told his daughter and her friends that the ocean was safe for swimming, and then raced through the fair, shouting for help? It just made no sense, and he hadn't been drunk, no matter what the local press said. Nervous, either, damn it. _(Him... afraid of Merrick? Not bloody likely!)_

Once more, Gordon came back to his hypnosis idea. Had they all been brain-washed? And if so, by who? All at once, a cold and prickling possibility occurred to him. Some years earlier, in Macedonia, he'd had his mind seized and been bludgeoned near senseless by the Hood, a right bastard if ever there was one. Dead, though… wasn't he?

After the happenings on San Marcos and Tracy Island, how could he possibly have survived, much less seized and controlled _anyone?_ John had all but sworn to the man's demise. _"One with the cosmos,"_ he'd said.

Very much, Gordon wished to speak with his older brothers. He'd the cell phone John had given him (though not the PS Nano that the astronaut denied leaving on Joyce's bounced-on and creaking chair). What he did _not_ have was privacy. Perhaps… and this was a frightening thought… perhaps not even in his own slow-working head.

On either side of him, the lasses continued to flip channels and watch anime shows. They quite shouted down the telly in their eagerness to explain convoluted plot points and oddly-named characters. But it hardly mattered; Gordon wasn't listening. Not until Scott returned with TinTin and Alan (still absorbed in programming the game scenario) did Gordon relax his concentration.

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_Hollywood, California, on Mulholland Drive, at the luxurious home of an Omni Entertainment exec-_

The idea came to him in a flash, one of those creative masterstrokes, like Survival, for which Uri Blake was deservedly worshipped. Have… (_wait for it)…_ Have the Discovery-Adventure film crew ship out to that new South Pacific island, the one that was still erupting, and get live, underwater, holographic footage of an honest-to-Pompeii, in-your-popcorn-stuffing-face disaster. Call it: Voyage to Mount Doom!

Sure, sure… CGI on the tragedy and aftermath, baby. Who needs the lawsuits? But _think_ of the holo-vid box office take! Then the home-theater chip sales, school-version licensing fees and… _What_ Survival show? Jason _who?_

Uri was pleased enough with his brainstorm to go out for lunch that day, and to call an urgent meeting of his staff and underlings, a few hours later. In less than a week, with generous financial backing from a certain Mr. Belaghant, the Discovery-Adventure crew was on their way to box office history and bankroll Nirvana.


	62. 62: Disillusioned

**62: Disillusioned**

_Room 323, the Royal Darwin Hospital, Australia-_

Scott came into the room a bit later than expected, carrying a sack of warm takeaway food for Gordon. The fragrance of grilled beef and molten cheese, plus whatever else… fried potatoes, he thought… quite perfumed his flower-and-balloon-filled hospital room. Just the thing to waken a flagging appetite. More importantly, though, his eldest brother had brought along TinTin, Alan and a lately-come Virgil.

"Switched out with John," the big pilot explained, striding over to reach past Joyce and affectionately muss Gordon's red hair.

Scott heaved the food at him. Virgil caught it smoothly in midair, and then swung the meal over to Gordon; swift as a well-fielded ball. But before tucking in, Gordon introduced Virgil to Amy and Joyce (who appeared rather awe-struck). They bolted up and out of their seats at once, eager to leave the impromptu family gathering. This was rather a good thing, as Gordon was by this time well knackered. He did get additional kisses, however, and from Amy a plaintive,

"This was a terrible second date, wasn't it? We totally didn't impress you!"

Ignoring Virgil's odd look and failing to notice TinTin's, (for she had a way, sometimes, of not being seen) Gordon gave the lasses a quick, friendly shrug.

"Not so bad as th' first," he said, laughing a bit. "No one was half-drowned or jelly-stung, at any rate."

That cheered them.

"Maybe date three will be normal," Amy suggested hopefully, as she and her friend gathered their bits and bobs in preparation for leaving. "With, you know… movies and popcorn, or something, instead of riptides and rocks."

Gordon smiled and halfway agreed, but promised no such thing as an actual _date_. It was gone 3:00 by the time they left, and his takeaway food had grown depressingly tepid. Still edible with great quantities of mustard piled on, though.

"Friends of yours, kiddo?" Virgil asked, settling his muscular frame into Amy's abandoned chair. He hadn't much liked being left on the island with Gordon away at the hospital, but _someone_ had to mind the desk.

"More like fellow survivors," the swimmer corrected, unwrapping another roast-beef sandwich. "Nice enough sorts, though occasionally quite painful."

Then Scott switched off the telly, and Gordon became quite serious, because his eldest brother's expression was grim as a backlogged and unpaid mortician's.

"We need to talk," Scott told him, hooking a thumb at the door to eject Alan and TinTin. "About an old and unlamented friend."

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_Midday, on a snowy and sparse-wooded hillside; facing a hand of demons-_

He'd expected to fight, but with few weapons and less armor… and with no magic at all… Gawain could do very little besides serve as a broad-shouldered target. The snow was falling faster, now, and though the wind had dropped, so did the temperature. It was very cold.

Standing beside the lost paladin, Drehn fired spells and arrows in plenty, only to have his magery blocked and his black-feathered shafts burn up in mid-flight. Not all of them, though. Several hissing-fast arrows slashed through the chinks in a demon steed's armor, or struck at its white-ringed, mad eyes. The shots harried them a little, anyhow; becoming more serious, once the elf convinced his friend to speak a short blessing.

Firing continuously, braced at the center of that burning red pentagram, Drehn grunted,

"Whatever your god… thinks of you, Gawain… he's probably angrier… at _them."_

The former Cross-Knight assented numbly. Like stirring damp ashes to look for a coal, it was, but Gawain at last found some words and he spoke them, not really expecting much good. It was only a child's blessing, after all; a simple request for protection from harm. Yet, the elf's very next arrow cut fiercely close to the cardinal demon, leaving a seething-black scar on his face.

Another was launched, and the demon's hell-steed shrieked like a madwoman, lashing its tail and thrust-withdraw-thrusting a curved black stinger. Placing a frozen hand to his face, the demon knight attempted to stanch his own wound, but black char flared outward like leprosy. Soon his helmeted head was entirely blackened, grinning like a skull.

The demon wasted no time at all with threats or boasting. Regaining control of his plunging mount, he rode slowly inward, calling forth a fiery, bone-handled whip as he crossed those blazing red lines.

"A fool," the demon knight whispered, "requires instruction. A pair of fools, still more."

The lash flicked upward, spreading into many-tongued barbs of flame. Then, it came down. The elf would have dodged, but Gawain (having all the wrong reflexes) merely braced himself. Seeing this, Drehn cursed and switched direction, attempting to shove his friend aside. He wasn't quick enough.

The lash bit deep into flesh and soul, scorching both. But not everywhere did it touch. Gawain's tunic had been sewn for him by the Lady Kait, embroidered and safe-charmed by Anelle, and it turned the worst of the demon's whip. Gawain's legs, head and hands were not so protected, though, and he could shield very little of Drehn.

Twice… three times… the lash fell, searing them inside and out, and hurling them flat to the ground. In the midst of all this, through red and soul-tearing agony, Gawain heard the demon begin a spell of Temptation. When it ended, so for awhile did everything else; sound, pain, and sullen-dark mage flame.

Instead, a single question was asked of him, but Gawain would not respond. Time passed, and again that insistent, seductive question whispered forth, in a voice very much like Anelle's.

But he hurt all over, and inside, too. He could smell pine trees and snow, and hear beneath him his friend's ragged breathing. _Be dead soon,_ he thought. They both would. Dead, but not corrupted. Stubbornly, Gawain shook his head. He was no longer anyone's weapon, and nevermore would be, again.

The ground seemed to shift and the air to quiver, as though sprites of earth and wind would have sprung to assist, if they could have. Then, three mounted figures flared through the darkness, falling upon the demon knights from outside their pentagram: Sir Kent, Lord Ravencall and Sir Argonne.

"_Gawain!"_ It was Frodle's voice; speaking not through the air, but in thought. _"Gawain, do you recall the First Words of your order?"_

"Aye," the former paladin gasped, as a little more of the world (slivers of sky, Drehn and dark pine) sorted itself around him. Rolling to a crouch, he added, "Learnt it off, years ago… from a floor tile. Why?"

"_Because you must picture the sigils very clearly in your head, Gawain, and then pace them out, just as if you were a boy stomping your name in the snow. Do that now, while the demons are occupied. Just keep walking, no matter what, and hold tight to the elf. Gawain? Did you hear me?"_

"I heard."

He could visualize the blue script on that inlaid chapel-floor tile. In words of the east, it said: _Light in darkness, Order from chaos, Hope amid deepest despair._ Though it tore at his heart, he remembered.

"Right, then…" Gawain struggled to his feet, hauling Drehn up, as well. "Time t' be off, master elf."

All around him, demon mounts and the steeds of the paladins roared, screamed and hissed. Swords, lances and whips crackled and flared like lightning. Lord Ravencall's great cat sprang from a low-bellied, snarling crouch, smashing a knight from its scorpion-tailed horse.

Drawing the elf's arm across his shoulders, Gawain fixed those sigils in his mind and began to walk. A flame-whip _Ssh-cracked_ over their heads, tearing the right ear off of Kent's rearing warhorse. Gawain kept moving.

Half a scorpion tail whirled past them, trailing spirals of dark venom. Some of it spattered on Drehn, who dashed the stuff away and stumbled onward. Racing up from behind, a hell knight slashed wildly for Gawain's head. Sir Argonne put spurs to his horse, charging up to spear the demon on his lance. Gawain scarcely noticed.

Another sigil began to take shape, defacing the pentagram. Weakening it, just as each hesitant step healed a bit more of their ravaged flesh. Not so, the demons. For _them_, the First Words meant nothing but doom. Something discorporated to his left with a long, hissing scream, blasting Ravencall from the saddle. He collapsed upon the rocky ground, stunned nearly senseless, but Gawain had completed the final curve of sigil three, and pushed on. Words of blue flame burnt in his steps: _Light… Order… Hope._

When the pentagram was three-quarters abolished, Drehn's familiar burst free of her tattooed prison, adding her own fierce, swooping bit to the fight. A riderless demon-steed turned plunging and shrieking to attack the two walkers. Drehn beat the creature away with his sword, almost stumbling from the path, but Gawain would not let him fall. Last few steps…

The pentagram's flame doused all at once, leaving two remaining demons who crumbled at once into flies and dark ash. The order's words flared brighter, still, illuminating gore-spattered snow, twisted pines… and three withdrawing paladins. No matter. He supposed they'd done what they came for.

Gawain looked back at his finished work, noting that the sigils grew looser and curved upward slightly, toward the end. Then he sat down, looking very like a period at the end of some common-speech sentence. He was too exhausted to fight off another attack, so Drehn remained near. Then the elf gave a sudden sharp start and gestured, anchoring a transport spell with one hand, while shifting his sword to the other.

Allat, Glud and Frodle came rushing through the resultant portal, just as three healed Cross-Knights returned from another. Everyone looked strangely altered, glimpsed through falling snow and that leaping, soundless blue flame... all of them pinched with suspicion and doubt. Sir Argonne and Lord Ravencall stopped short, unwilling to approach their fallen comrade, but Kent rode a few yards further. He dismounted, swinging a leg over the saddle to step heavily from creaking stirrup to rocky ground. Eyes fixed upon Gawain, hands away from his weapons, the paladin slowly approached. At a nudge from Drehn, Gawain rose.

"Lad," Sir Kent began. His breath was a white plume and his smile painfully fleeting. "It is… a great relief to us, that you rejected the dark ones' offer."

Gawain turned this sentence over in his head for a bit. Then, gazing directly into Kent's blue eyes, he said,

"You were watching."

The paladin nodded once. In a low voice, Gawain went on, saying,

"And if I'd seemed t' weaken, you'd have killed me."

Sir Kent drew something from beneath his cloak; a silver dagger, gemmed with white stones. The flame-words blazed upward, suddenly, and the dagger replied with fire of its own.

"Aye," Kent said softly. "Rather than let you be turned, I'd have killed you myself, Gawain… Though it would have destroyed me to do it."

The dagger was an intensely magical thing, one of the great treasures of their order, together with a chalice and cross. Gawain looked at the knife to avoid Kent's eyes, knowing that had he yielded to darkness, that blade would have pierced his heart.

Lord Ravencall had been observing the burning First Words. Now, shaking his head, the half-elf said,

"It seems that we've gained a new sacred site."

Pointedly not looking at Gawain's assembled "creatures", Ravencall nudged the cat-steed forward. Unlike the fully human paladins, his breath did not plume in the freezing-cold air. Nor did he shiver.

"Judging by your success with the Words, Gawain, there is still hope of redemption. Rid yourself of this lot, seek cleansing and atonement at the great temple, and then…"

He gestured in midair with a slim, elegant hand, producing a perfect white crystal. A negligent flick sent the thing drifting toward Gawain, who ignored it.

"…You may summon us by shattering this crystal. A petition for reinstatement at the level of squire might then be considered."

His Lordship paused, apparently expecting Gawain to fawn with gratitude, but the young man could not. He couldn't even take up the crystal, which all at once dropped to his feet in the snow.

"Do not tarry overlong," Ravencall told him. "Our patience is not without limits."

Sir Kent had spelled the dagger away by this time. Picking up the crystal, he pressed it into Gawain's hand.

"Lad," he whispered, clasping the younger man's shoulder, "If the possibility exists, take it. For your father and Brotherhood, I urge you to do whatever you must to regain a place amongst us. At a time like this, with the underworld threatening and Faerie long silent, we cannot afford to lose you."

Gawain did not know how to respond. How to think or feel, either, for that matter. He'd been one of them from boyhood… been the son of his father for longer than that… yet both had rejected him. Meanwhile, the elf, halfling, orc-man and shape-changer rustled a little, standing quietly behind their human comrade. Snowflakes fell upon the wyvern's kettle-hot surface, puffing into steam with a constant low chorus of pops. The wind sighed and went elsewhere, driving snow clouds away before it. Said Gawain, to the knights of his one-time order,

"Thanks very much f'r your help and advice, but I doubt th' king would have me back, even cleansed."

For what had been, Gawain accepted the crystal, though he never intended to use it. Then, once Kent, Ravencall and Argonne had left him, he turned to face the silently waiting others.


	63. 63: Stalking

Will edit, soon. Thanks for your kind patience and reviews. Know I've been sort of slow...

**63: Stalking**

_Nowhere and nowhen, outside of time and weaving throughout-_

She was above all else a devourer, but a patient one; far more glacier than flame. Nothing mortal, after all, could outlast entropy, decay and darkness. Besides which, haste tended to shred the more tenuous strands of her web. So, the Queen would not force matters. Instead, gazing through a portal at the doings of her deeply-snared associates, she allowed herself a sensation of (amusement sounded too frivolous)… Call it _interest._

They'd been fixed to the unmagicked plane of Earth for a term of 666 days and 1 hour, their link to Midworld as fragile as the tether binding an "astronaut" to his "spacecraft". But she was quite aware that such tethering strands could be ruptured, slaying an astronaut or dissolving away a pair of misplaced demon lords.

Not forever, of course. Given a few eons in which to recover, they'd be back, but she would have won yet another round, and be much further placed along the multi-dimensional gameboard. Closer to the end, nearer to peace and oblivion. And so, as solitude was most conductive to planning and forethought, why not prolong it?

Hovering amid swirls of unworked chaos, she seemed a tall, misty figure with drifting cobweb hair and the bruise-shadowed suggestion of eyes; a being too cold, weary and awful to be called beautiful. Yet, one that had lately experienced mortality. On Midworld, she'd eaten and drunk. She'd been led by the hand, had lain curled in sleep beside a shifting, watchful other, and been warmed with clothing and firelight. Strange experiences, all, but not her chiefmost concern.

No… the Queen's preoccupation at the moment remained _strategy_. Should she finesse the rules, as _they_ had done? Ought she to deliberately strand the Hooded One and Crowned Skull upon Earth?

Her attention shifted to the nearby Noplace which held their flickering prison-gems. One pulsed coldly grey, the other a dense, dripping scarlet, both varying constantly in shape and size. She had many options. The gems themselves might be shattered or lost, their link to her pinned brethren totally severed. Any why not do so? Though an inelegant, unsubtle move, it was certainly allowable.

Yet, to weaken her brethren would only strengthen the position of their _true_ opponent. So she hesitated, always more comfortable to wait and outlast than to rashly take action. For, if the Game was ultimately won by Light and Order, she'd be burdened with yet another creation, an expanded universe and further eternities. And so, she thought: _let it end._

The Queen of the Lost might have done any number of things, then, had she not glanced one more time through her portal. A sudden gathering of sprites and ravens alerted her that the Hooded One's minions were acting on his behalf in Midworld. She stiffened, for this was as intolerable a state of affairs as that the blunted tool of her enemy might actually reforge the link to Faerie. _Neither_ could be permitted. Neither would be.

Cold and deliberate, she took a handful of streaming chaos and formed herself a servant, one with which she could block several moves at once. Let the Hooded One and Crowned Skull plot. Let Order scheme, as well. They would find Entropy more than prepared.

_"Go,"_ she whispered to the creature, which folded its wings and bowed low. _"Return victorious, or destroy yourself… for I will not tolerate failure."_

It went, vanishing with sudden gouts of dark flame. Meanwhile, patient and unpitying as dripping water or wind-blown sand and grinding ice, she would wait.

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_Spain, a small office in the World Government's Ministry of Maritime Operations-_

Mr. Cleeves was not himself, these days. Everyone said so. They'd have been shocked to learn what had actually come over him, though. A hard-working field agent the man had always been, but this passed understanding. Long hours, no lunch, constant research… In short, Aldous Cleeves wasn't acting very much like a recovering heart patient.

His recent illness and near-death experience had affected him oddly, making obvious the link between smug, insufferable Jeff Tracy, and a certain vigilante rescue force. Obvious to _him_, at any rate.

All of his adult life, Cleeves had been diligent; toiling away in the service of WorldGov without notice or respect. Now, though, he'd found a way to make himself seen, if only he solved the problem, discovered the answer, _first_. No small task.

President Moreira had let it be known (through deniable leaks and secretive channels) that he wished an end to International Rescue. And that was one piece of his puzzle. It was also clear that multi-national corporations were another set of daggers at WorldGov's collective back. Moreira could maneuver and legislate all he wanted to. Giant conglomerates like Omega Petrochemical, Tracy Aerospace, Springfield Pharmaceutical and Sensei-BioGen ultimately ran the show. They were the rest of his bits.

But, let a CEO be arrested… let even _one_ of these Goliaths be brought down by an employee of WorldGov, and the rest would surely fall into line, making a hero and savior of quiet, intense little Aldous Cleeves. Well, David had his sling, and Cleeves his sudden hunch; that the chinks in Jeff Tracy's armor were secret ties to International Rescue. All he had to do was prove it, and then blow the whistle.

(As for the Crowned Skull, eager for war, he manipulated his mortal puppet with a great deal more subtlety than the Hooded One; playing the Game and setting up his pieces with genuine, lascivious glee. Until his recollection began to fade, it was all so _simple._)

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_The Royal Darwin Hospital, Australia-_

He'd failed once, but not disastrously. Especially as the majority of his well-meaning young targets were now gathered in one place. Most considerate of them.

The Hood stepped from his cab late that afternoon, squinting through a burst of green palm fronds and sudden, bright sunshine. The glare bothered him, for he did not enjoy light. Stalking was easiest at night.

Using a bit of influence, he sent the cab-driver off unpaid, and then crossed a sheltered concrete walkway to the hospital's big glass doors. Inside, a fair number of people bustled about the main lobby or waited in stunned silence, biting their lips and gripping their emotions. Paltry beings, with tiny concerns for an infant or mate or coworker. They irritated him.

As well as he could, the Hood tuned them out, filtering for thoughts of… _ah. _There. The Tracy patient's location fairly leapt to his mind from that of an attending physician, just now going off shift. She, too, projected irritating thoughts, so the Hood "suggested" that she abandon her tiresome career and young husband in favor of travel to dangerous lands. Perhaps she'd be killed.

As luck would have it, the satisfied (and mostly invisible) monster arrived at a bank of chrome elevators just in time to encounter two American teenagers, on their way down. Amy Smith and Joyce Gilbert, they were. He knew them quite well, for he'd recently made use of them. Their minds were frothing with inane, puppyish emotion… and the day's alarming confession.

The Hood halted his former tools with a single, cold thought. He was displeased, and stood for a moment regarding the simple-minded girls, as a wolf might look at a pair of helpless young fawns. The blonde and her shyer, dark friend were full of plans for tomorrow, but the Hood fished through all of that, until he came to a certain phrase often snapped forth by Joyce's harried father. Holding the girls still, he made eye-contact and then whispered silkily,

"Go play in traffic."

Smiling, the Hood held just a bit of his focus on them, as Amy and Joyce began playing tag through the lobby and carpark, out toward Darwin's busiest highway. He wished to feel it, when their little game ended.

The elevator doors chimed and slid open before him, emitting another knot of worried and worn people. The Hood let them pass, but prevented anyone else from joining him as he strode into the elevator car. He wanted to think, not block out the stupid, clamorous needs of others.

Room 323, the doctor's mind had said, confirmed by the near thoughts of an older and quieter physician; one somehow… _different_. Stronger.

Suddenly uncomfortable, the Hood pulled away from Dr. Boanyoo's dangerously powerful mind. Almost, the man had sensed him. To quiet himself, he pushed the third floor button and considered a bit of pleasant revenge: John Tracy was flying away from the Royal Darwin Airport in his brother's fast jet. Not home, thanks to a bit of light confusion, but far out to sea, where he'd run out of fuel, stall and crash. This thought brought a smile back to the Hood's face, which he could see reflected in the polished elevator doors. That was one death he intended to insert himself well into, one he expected to savor, perhaps even revealing himself while Tracy drowned, or was torn apart by the beasts of the sea.

…But this last thought disturbed him. The Hood scowled, watching as his reflected expression was split when the elevator thumped to a halt, chimed and then opened its doors. Gordon Tracy had somehow escaped a similar death by water, and this was extremely troublesome. The swimmer was nothing, here; a mere athlete and sometime-hero. But… somewhere… _else_where… the boy was… he represented… What?

The Hood stepped from the elevator car and then paused, confused. Something was happening to him. Something he'd warned himself to expect. Furious, he afflicted everyone around him (all of those noisy, self-absorbed people pushing into the lift) with sudden, sharp migraines. _Damn them! _How dared they wonder about food, work and their worthless relatives, when something as vital as lifeblood was slipping out of his grasp? Damn them all, but especially the Tracys!

Uttering a low, tense growl, he turned left and stalked down a blue-carpeted hallway, seeking room 323. No one saw him pass, for he didn't allow it, but they certainly _felt_ him. Doctors, nurses and orderlies, patients and visitors were stricken with suicidal depression or surging wild anger; whichever would do the most harm.

They suffered, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't what he craved. But the Hood's feast would come soon enough, beginning with the two children he encountered outside of room 323: Alan Tracy and young TinTin… his dear, precious niece.


	64. 64: Light From Darkness

Panoply and Tikatu have provided some wonderfully creative suggestions. Needless to say, I took them. Thanks for that, as well as your helpful reviews. (Many thanks, ED!)

**64: Light in Darkness**

_A mild summer night in Colorado, at the five-star Broadmoor Hotel-_

Decisions were made and money spent, but throughout those long, droning factory-site negotiations, Jeff Tracy did little but worry. The news from home had been deeply disturbing, and if he hadn't brought along a top-notch bargaining team, the usually razor-sharp CEO would probably have lost his shirt and life's earnings. He was _that_ distracted.

According to John, Gordon's condition was improving rapidly, but the reasons for his foolish swim were still unexplained, unless… It seemed there was at least an outside chance that the Hood might have survived their earlier encounter, and returned to renew the attack. Made sense, in a sickening sort of icy-bowels way. Terrible, ugly sense.

That was the first shoe. The remainder was Penelope's warning (whispered during their candlelit, balcony dinner) that WorldGov had once more made International Rescue a prime target. At this point, Jeff's stress level was through the roof, out beyond the stratosphere and somewhere past Neptune. Worried…?

That night, Jeff bolted his gourmet meal and paced like a tiger. Hell, _yes_, he was worried. But… as his gaze left the starry sky and dense forest to light on Penny's sweet, upturned face… At least he'd surrounded himself with trustworthy allies, family and good friends. Knowing this, Jeff felt ready to handle most anything, from corporate hardball to resurgent maniacs.

That, of course, was _before_ he received Brains' frantic distress call.

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_Midworld, at the newly created sacred site; a place of scrub pine and loose rock-_

Gawain stood speechless before his gathered companions. The season's first snowfall swirled past him. Shrill as a reed pipe, the wind lifted his hair and torn cloak, but the knight was too humiliated to notice a little cold. From elf, wyvern and half-orc, to shade and scholar, there they all waited; despite the fact that he'd no right at all to lead anyone. Not any more.

Gawain lifted his arms from his sides and then silently dropped them, having nothing whatever to say. Hardly able to make eye-contact, even. But Frodle reached up to pluck at his tunic sleeve, murmuring,

"Gawain, only the trappings have changed. The man inside remains good and sound… and it is the man we've chosen to follow, not his armor or title."

Allat agreed by transforming himself to the shape of a loyal grey wolfhound. Sitting down with a rock-scattering thump, the dog lifted one paw, barked alertly and wagged his plumed tail. Rather absently, the un-made knight leaned down and patted his shaggy head. (Because, sometimes, there was nothing at all like a dog or a horse.) Then Glud reached over to place a large hand on Gawain's shoulder, summoning his badly-diluted attention.

"Nothing is different but words," the half-orc rumbled, once more handing Gawain his thrice-dropped sword.

The elf was quiet, though. He seemed distracted by some deep, inner thorn-patch. But perhaps walking those sigils with the former Cross-Knight had changed him a bit.

"I'm sorry," Drehn said at last, in a very bleak voice. "This is my doing, Gawain… but I'll find a way to help mend things. I swear it."

He meant what he said, too. Gawain could feel and hear the dark elf's sincerity, gleaming like silver cash in a spade-full of earth. Briefly, the knight managed a crooked smile, but it vanished away before the others had a chance to react. Blowing on his suddenly cold hands, he said,

"I thank you f'r offerin'… all of you. Were I worthy t' lead, I could ask f'r no better companions."

Unfortunately, he _wasn't_ worthy. Yet somehow, his friends didn't grasp this. Needing time to think, Gawain trudged past the others to look at his newly-writ sacred site, where strange things (perhaps triggered by his weary advance) began happening.

A palisade of bright, man-high crystals smashed up through the snowy ground, shaking the earth like a rampaging troll. Within their crystalline arc rose a sudden ring of pale, slender birches. Grass, as well; unfurling through snow and frost with unnatural speed. But more than that, the rocky hillside had grown suddenly _warm,_ and it smelt all at once of apples.

Astounded, Gawain strode through a gap in the crystal wall. Alone, because only he was allowed to move nearer. The rest were barred. They could neither enter, themselves, nor stop Gawain from doing so. He didn't notice.

The knight's booted feet flattened grasses and scattered small stones. Otherwise, he'd have thought himself fevered, or dreaming. The sigils still glowed where he'd walked them, their purpose noble, even if the tool used for scribing had been broken and flawed. No sign of the pentagram, though.

Drawn by his own memories and that blue, leaping flame, Gawain wandered to the bottom edge of the fifth sigil: _Hope._ The will-o-wisp light flared to shoulder height, and then parted to reveal a Birch Nymph. Gawain stumbled backward a little, for she was flanked by tall elementals of Air, Earth, Water and Flame; roughly man-like beings, variously composed of wind, rubble, moisture or sparks. Recovering wits and composure, Gawain bowed low, murmuring,

"Milady… and lords."

The Nymph stepped forward, acknowledging his words with a regal nod. She had silvery-white skin flecked with many dark spots, and restless long, green-golden hair. Her eyes were very black, and her body quite slim and erect. Her beauty was too wild and inhuman to inspire much comfort, and her words did nothing to help matters. Extending both long-fingered hands, she whispered in a hissing rustle of leaves,

_"Sir knight, __your sword."_

Gawain's heart convulsed in his breast at this last, bitter loss. Not to be left with so much as a dead blade, then? So be it.

Wordlessly, he un-slung the weapon and handed it over. The Birch Nymph received it upon her outstretched palms, and then uttered wild, rushing words that had nothing at all mortal in them. The elementals responded in kind, answering with a clash and rattle of stone, the vast roar of water, of crackling flames and screaming, musical wind.

Gawain watched in surprise as their cries wove through the air to create an opaline, soap-bubble gem. It hovered a moment, and then dropped into the blackened socket left in his sword hilt by the holy symbol. Lying across the Nymph's palms, his sword began to flicker and gleam, twitching like something newly returned to life. She spoke to him, then, saying,

_"Sir knight, there is everything within you that existed before. Portals which close may be opened anew, but only from within. Your deity…"_

Her black, knot-eyed glance shifted upward slightly, and then rolled back down to search Gawain's face.

_"…Is a Being of justice, power and law. You have severed contact, and He cannot stoop to renew it. All He can do… as before… is Call to you."_

Right. Call. Just like before… when he'd been far too young to grasp what was happening.

"You speak f'r Him, then?" Gawain demanded of the Nymph and her towering companions. But she replied with a slow head shake.

_"No. We were once a Goddess, Ourselves; one who lost a great battle for Heaven, and was shattered into the bits you have encountered in field, swamp and wood. We are no threat to the current Order, but retain power enough to act, when the need is greatest. Midworld,"_ she continued, bending down to kiss his smudged forehead, _"has chosen."_

And then, she was gone. Her elementals, too. Gawain snapped alert from what seemed like a very strange dream, only to find that his sword lay on the ground at his feet, glowing with reflected, color-shot flame. Breath catching fast in his throat, he bent to retrieve it, and found that the holy symbol's charred socket had indeed been filled. His hand tightened upon the hilt until leather and metal bit hard at his palms. Midworld had chosen… but, had he? Or, was the knight being dragged along with some kind of current; too weak to swim for himself? Where, in all this, lay his right and proper path? Lady Kait would have said that all things begun with true courtesy, end well. So…

As he would have done before King Lot's high seat, Gawain dropped to one knee, with the sword held upright before him, hands on its silvery cross-guard. There, he would have spoken orderly, ritualized words of acceptance and thanks. Here… he lowered his head and said,

"Milady, I'm not at all sure I deserve y'r trust, or anyone else's, f'r th' matter of that… but I'll do all that I can t' prove myself, even so."

He'd made a start. That was something. After speaking his piece and waiting a bit (no response), Gawain stood up. Having no scabbard or sword belt, all he could do was sling the weapon across his back on that silvery cord Drehn had conjured up for it. Worked well enough for the time being; though, without padding or gambeson, the cord bit into his right shoulder like a fiery whip.

Gawain looked around before departing. The birch trees were bigger, now, having grown to full size in a soft, summery glade planted to shelter the First Words of his former order. Almost, he reached a hand to touch the heatless pale fire, but pulled up short. This was not his once-father's chapel, and he was no longer an innocent child. Despite his friends' words and Midworld's trust, things _had _changed.

Very tired, Gawain sighed, squared his shoulders, and left the sacred site. It was a short walk through the circle of birch trees and crystals, to the snow-flecked greensward outside. Evidently, time had passed differently there, because his companions had set up camp to wait for him. They hurried forward at Gawain's emergence, joined by two newcomers: a strange white horse and one gut-punch other.

"Oh, no…" the knight whispered, as Anelle sprang to her feet, crying,

"Gawain!"

She ran to him, and they half-killed each other with interrupted wild gestures and fast-blurted questions. She tried both to embrace him and dab at his few scrapes and smudges, using conjured healing water and the edge of her riding tunic. Gawain attempted to kneel while simultaneously arresting her stumbling, tear-blinded charge. Then there was the white horse, which dropped a mouthful of grass to rush forward.

"What…?" Gawain demanded, holding the lass slightly away, "How did you…?"

Once again, she would not permit him to kneel, any more than the insistent horse (or Allat's suddenly formed eyestalks) would allow them a moment's privacy. Anelle was lovely, though, and her tear-streaked pale face and green eyes drove everything else from his mind. She said, wriggling into his arms,

"Father Arnolde spelled me through, Gawain, for I threatened to cry, if he refused."

Lady Anelle's small, booted foot stamped the ground in a pretty mockery of wrath. Then she burrowed closer against him, eyes shut and face hidden. After a moment, in a sniffling voice, Anelle continued,

"I should have done so, and well he knew it; raising a ruckus and clamor enough to bring down the entire keep, and convince everyone within that he'd had me beaten with cudgels. I was _most_ severe."

Severe? _Anelle_? Fighting back a hysterical urge to laugh, Gawain held her fiercely, achingly close.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered into her dark hair. She smelled of lavender sachet and rare sandalwood, and felt like soft, curving heaven against him. "I'll send you back safe, straightaway."

Anelle turned her face up and caught his mouth with her own, causing sunbursts of deep warmth throughout the knight's body. His arms tightened; one hand at her shoulder blades, the other pressed to the small of her back. Too close an embrace for safety, without proper chaperonage. Overwhelmed, they stepped apart just a little. Said Anelle, gazing directly into his hazel-blue eyes,

"Father Arnolde could not bar me from coming to you, and no more shall anyone else. Besides, I… Oh, you _are_ happy to see me, aren't you, Gawain…? I've brought a horse I found wandering, and armour from the upper strong-room. I won't eat very much, my skirts are divided for riding, and… and I've brought Gareth's training sword. At a pinch, I could fight alongside you!"

"No."

They hadn't let go hands, so Gawain drew her back in, murmuring the sorts of things that made little sense except to their trembling-soft target. Was there ever so vexing, so wondrous a lass? Or so demanding a horse? Quite nudged him away from Anelle, it did, so perhaps there was chaperonage of sorts, after all.

The animal was tall, over fifteen hands, Gawain reckoned, and strongly built. A stallion, with good lines to him… high neck… dark, friendly eyes. Its mane and tail were touched with gold, and its hindquarters and fetlocks spotted in dove grey. Not above two years old, to judge by the teeth… and quite muscular enough to carry an armoured rider.

Anelle had ventured off while Gawain examined the horse. As she was yet tugging at a large bundle (which Glud helped her to lift) Gawain finished his inspection and looked one more time at the horse's dark eyes. He got nudged for his trouble and blown at, his red hair nuzzled and snuffed. Rather like…

Gawain's head lowered. He rubbed the arching long neck of a perfectly good, perfectly _ordinary_ horse, and said,

"Whatever did y' want t' go an' do a daft thing like that for? There are other knights… _better ones!"_

He was answered with a low-pitched horse grumble and contentedly switching tail. Answered by an old friend, too loyal to accept a new rider. Gawain put his arms about the beast's neck, resting his forehead against dusty horsehide and shifting muscle. Just George, now, he thought… as _he'd_ become merely Gawain.

"See?" Anelle interrupted him, bidding a very patient Glud to set down and unpack her bundle. "Here is a good mail shirt and helm… a sword belt with scabbard, not much worn… gauntlets, greaves, neck-piece, and my father's own surcoat. All you could wish for!"

Whether they'd fit him or no was another matter, but the lass seemed so eager and anxious that Gawain said nothing but,

"Thank you, Milady," as he took and kissed her small hand.

By this time, Frodle, Allat, Glud and Drehn had gathered round, and they clearly expected answers. Worse, they expected a leader; one not empty inside as a lightning-struck tree. Facing their wary silence, he started to speak.

"I've… I'm not what I was," he told them uneasily, still holding the lass's hand. "But I've not forgotten how to fight, and perhaps…"

"Gawain," the elf snapped, "stop apologizing. Like Frodle said, it was always _you_, not the damn title. Your six charming "brother knights" still have their armor and holiness… and I wouldn't follow one of them across the _street_, much less over the ice wall. We should move on, though," he continued, shifting moods as rapidly as the ocean, "because this spot is fairly conspicuous, and we don't need any more attention."

"Aye," Gawain agreed, eager to get Anelle packed off home. "Once I've seen t' returning th' lady to her folk, we'll head north. 'Tis not safe, here, and Lord Morcar's most likely beside himself with worry."

Glud spoke next, cutting off the girl's tumbling protests.

"The house of my mother is not far," he said. "If it seems good to all, I will guide you there. We can rest and eat, and spell home your lady. My mother is a witch, so there will be protection from outside magic."

_"_Just how not far are we talking about, here?" Allat demanded, asking Gawain's next question for him. Glud snuffed the air and frowned consideringly.

"Five miles. Five-and-a-quarter, maybe, if you don't like mud."

"Uh-huh."

Allat switched shapes with a mumbled word, changing to one of his many flying forms; a feathered serpent with more filmy wings than seemed sensible. But Gawain was far too distracted to comment. An orc-wife's den…? Before, he might have rejected the invitation. Now he was glad to have earned it.

"Accepted, Glud… and thank you. We'll ride together that far, at least, and then I'll ask one of you t' transport m'self and th' Lady Anelle t' Falkirk, f'r a bit."

"That sounds like a decent plan," Frodle added, looking around at the taller others. "In the meantime, Gawain, we should think about defense and concealment, because the closer we come to our goal, the more likely we are to be attacked."

Made sense. Especially coming from the halfling, whose wisdom and quick thinking had saved them all, twice now.

"Right, then," Gawain decided. "We'll be needin' a decoy. I might…"

"No, _I_ might," the elf corrected him, frowning a little. "Let me have a few personal effects from each of you… the lady included… and I'll cast two spells; one to disguise myself as a crowd, the other to keep the rest of you hidden. Then, I suggest we split up. I can rejoin you later, once I've drawn off any pursuit. Well…?"

Gawain hesitated, rubbing at his unshaven chin. The idea seemed sound, if extremely dangerous for the elf.

"You're determined, then?" Gawain asked him.

Drehn nodded, holding up a small collection of items stolen for him by the gleefully snickering (and very quick) shape-changer: Anelle's garnet ring, Glud's belt knife, Frodle's second-best quill, and a fine linen tunic belonging to Gawain. Over the resulting outcry, he said,

"The first concealment spell was set up awhile ago, when you were… communing with nature, or whatever it is you do at places like this." And then, turning to face the others, "You'll get it all back, I promise. Gawain…? Say the word, and I'm off."

The knight gave him a reluctant nod, and they clasped hand and shoulder, briefly.

"Take care," said Gawain. "If anythin' seems amiss, make a transport spell, an' we'll bring you straight through, or come help."

"Understood, but nothing's going to go wrong. By myself, I'm extremely stealthy."

Drehn's confidence was probably well founded, after several years of wandering the surface world, with a very large price on his head. Still, Gawain couldn't help fretting. He hated sending anyone out alone; stealthy as grave-mist, or not.

That afternoon, they broke camp and parted company. Glud was to lead Gawain, Frodle, Anelle and Allat northeastward, while the elf rode off with illusions for company and spells for protection.


	65. 65: Waiting Game

Late at night, edits will follow. Thanks, Tikatu and Panoply, for your recent reviews.

**65: Waiting Game**

_High over the Pacific, in a custom-modified Gulfstream 350-_

His grandfather'd had an expression: _Listen, boy… if it __looks__ too good to be true, it __is__._ Of course, Grant Tracy had been talking about horse trades and land buys, not flying, but it was still the first thing John thought of when his beautiful day and perfect conditions began showing mysterious cracks. He'd been flying for less than an hour, he thought; bang on course and schedule, with a setting sun and jewel-toned sea for his backdrop. Nothing like the world at Mach .85 and 25,000 feet, as seen from a luxury cockpit... unless it was Earth from space.

But there was a small, nagging pain, something like a mosquito bite (he was mildly allergic to certain species); one that just wouldn't leave him alone. The liquid-blue sky and fast-spreading night were beautiful… something his brother Virgil could have painted… but that sharp little bite deviled John out of appreciating them. The sun's warm light, the droning engines and his own peculiar satisfaction tried drowning it out, but couldn't. Instead, pushing through waves of drowsy confusion, John tried to pinpoint the odd sensation, thinking: _What the hell hurts, and why?_

Okay… status check: He was buckled into a soft leather seat, wearing sunglasses against the day's final parting shots. The spacious glass cockpit hummed, clicked and whispered… instruments nominal… controls responding like they were wired right into his brain. Green across the board, except for that one persistent, annoying…

His wrist, John decided, once he'd summoned the will to concentrate. That flea-bite damn pain was coming from the vicinity of his left wrist. He thought about looking down at the hand in question (currently nursing the jet's steering yoke) but instead checked his altitude. 25,000 feet and holding… fuel tanks full. And that reading stirred a few sluggish questions.

Full…? After nearly an hour's flight? How? With genuine effort (battling soft, puffy clouds of _"don't worry")_ John forced his dark-blue eyes from the instrument panel to his stinging left hand. _Weird_, he thought, examining his reddened skin_._ Maybe there w_as _a bug loose in the cockpit.

Before he could decide, something else happened. A lightning-like crack developed in the expiring day around him. Brief, it was; a quick flash of storm clouds, juddering turbulence and low-fuel klaxons. According to his instruments, the tanks had been flushed, all three of them. But then the jolting bit of reality vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him wrapped in cotton-wool peace and contentment. There was a reason this wasn't good, but for the life of him, John couldn't remember it; just his grandfather's words about strangely low prices and too-easy terms.

His wrist flared again, harder than ever, once more tearing that sunset perfection in half. Piercing it. The Gulfstream shuddered, battling fierce winds and heavy rain. In the brief reality-strike, John glanced at his GPS and altimeter.

_Holy shit._ He was well below radar at 700 feet, and so far off course that his stomach muscles clenched into stone as he reached for the… No. False alarm. Must've nodded off for a second, the baffled pilot decided, because all he saw now was violet-gold twilight and Tracy Island, just topping the northern horizon.

He'd made it back. Time to bank low and begin final approach. No need to call in. No need to do anything at all but land the plane and go home.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The Royal Darwin Hospital, room 323, amid wavering silver balloons and the remains of a take-away supper-_

"Okay," Scott said to his youngest-brother-but-one, scooting his chair around and leaning well forward. "I want the truth about the other night, Gordon. Everything you remember. Hit it."

The fighter pilot studied his brother's rumpled red hair, hazel eyes and wrinkled white hospital garb. Thanks to John's laconic _"what if…"_ he was searching for signs of… of whatever the hell mind control even looked like. At the bed's far side, Virgil stirred restlessly in a chair of his own. He didn't much care for Scott's sharply accusing tone, but didn't say anything. Not yet.

"Well…?" Scott prodded.

Gordon shrugged miserably and pitched the empty take-away sack into a nearby rubbish bin. So much for the food and get-well pleasantries... But the pilot was waiting.

"I'm prepared t' take oath on a towering heap of Bibles an' stock reports that I wasn't at all drunk, if that's what y'r after, Scott. Might have had just a bit, earlier, but nothin' close to my limit, I swear t' you. Not with th' lassies about." _Too dangerous._

"Okay, then… were you out to prove something, maybe?" Scott pushed; sheer, hawk-like seriousness ironing flat both of his dimples.

The swimmer shook his head, no.

"Don't believe what they're sayin', please, Scott. The local media's made me out a bit suicidal, but I…"

Gordon hesitated, and his eyes clouded briefly from blue-starred hazel to nearly brown. Trick of the light… and the heartache. No sense bringing TinTin into this, however. If she'd fancied him, she'd have said so by now, and that was all there was to the matter. _Time to move on, mate_. Forcing a crooked smile, Gordon finished up with,

"I've nothin' whatever t' prove. Not here, at any rate. Ask me again at the Brisbane Invitational... or in Rome, when summer, 2070's come round."

Scott leaned back in his seat. He didn't smile, though. If anything, his handsome face grew more worried, still… and Gordon knew why.

"Right," sighed the pilot. "That's what I figured. Which means we have to consider what lies behind door number three…"

The Hood, that would be, though no one quite wanted to mention him. Continued Scott,

"… and what we plan to do about it, if he really _is_ back."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The level- three common area, just beyond room 323, at close of visiting hours._

Unseen (because he did not choose to be noticed) the Hood tracked his quarry. The boy sat slumped in a chair by a trio of drink machines, with both feet propped on a tabletop. His mind was open and unsecured, his transparent thoughts preoccupied with programming some type of illusory game.

The Hood watched Alan Tracy play computer games for a time, because a victim's pain and terror were far more enjoyable once they'd become acquainted. And also… because the notion of a grand competition somehow resonated, compelling the man to look deeper. Alan's frantically plotting mind held no answers, though it hardly signified. For he displayed the sort of childish exuberance that was especially rewarding to shatter.

As for the girl… his niece was valued for other reasons; as much for the sake of her stolen mother, as for the added power she might confer upon certain others. For this reason, he saw the girl in two ways. As an innocent, worried child, and the scintillant future of an extremely ancient gift. Most of all, though, he saw her as unguarded, easily available prey. Careful to remain shielded and unnoticed, the Hood slipped nearer.

_Her_ mind was not so open as the boy's. She was more difficult to read, but her uncle caught glimpses, now and again, of turmoil, anguish and pent-breath, unfolding desire. Delightful… and so wonderfully simple to twist. TinTin sat beneath a large window upon an upholstered brown chair, with her shoes off and her knees drawn up to her chest. Her head was lowered, he saw, and her shining black hair swung forward to partly shield a face as lovely as her mother's.

Greedily, the Hood reached for his niece, until a sudden sharp vision pulled him up short. He felt a crunching-vast sound… the white-hot, blazing shock of impact… of tearing metal and shattering pain. Someone else's pain. Feeding off the influx, enjoying it, the Hood closed his eyes and he smiled.


	66. 66: Order and Chaos

Hey. Will edit this one and 65, post haste. Time for a disclaimer, or something? I don't own a thing but my imagination and keyboard. How's that?

**66: Order and Chaos**

_Out on the angry and troubled Pacific-_

The Discovery Adventure team was well financed, well equipped and _very_ well led. Perhaps their higher-ups' motives were greedy, but the Discovery team's reasons for setting forth were essentially scientific: collect data, make a live-action report from exotic climes, and get others to pay for it all. Nice work, if you could get it, and they certainly had.

Their ship was the sleek, 70-ton salvage and exploration vessel Defiant, captained by Carson Murray, a bold and experienced seaman. There was also a smallish submersible craft, bright orange and globular, called Hector. They'd searched out the Mariana Trench in it, once, and another time located the final resting place of Blackbeard's missing gold treasure. Other scientists might have been happy in a laboratory, but not this lot.

They were ably led by Farrell Cummings; a tall, dark-haired man with a horizon-scanning grey squint and an easy, booming laugh. Farrell's background was paleontology, though he'd long since set aside his dental pick, wire mesh and field notes for a much wilder ride.

Tanned and wiry Mariska Shay was the team's archeologist. She had brown hair, dark eyes and a tendency to fire her views like bullets. To hell with injured feelings and suchlike collateral damage. If they can't take a joke...

Their medic and general biologist was the kind and funny Larry Howard, a balding, lightly built man with wide-spaced blue eyes. Next to Farrell, he was the oldest member of the team, and quite philosophical about taking stupid risks for the bread-and-circuses bunch.

Karen Parks was the Discovery team's oceanographer and perpetually sunburned grad student. Once upon a time, she'd worked for a Doctor Severson, who'd trekked off to the North Pole one year and never come back. Karen had blonde hair, blue eyes and a very bright smile. Rangy and tall, she fully intended to finish her schooling… Someday.

There was a new member, though, a last-minute replacement for their recently departed cameraman. He was Shane Poston, of _Survival: South Pacific_ fame. Rather a scruffy young man, and heavily tattooed, he'd been first available when the call to action came through from Hollywood.

Sailing west into rough, squally seas, the Discovery Adventure team made plans to reach a new island and descend by sea to its volcanic heart. Let Omni Entertainment worry about local governments and restrictive paperwork. _Their_ job was to risk everything for science, and look good doing it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Midworld, late afternoon of a blustery, snow-spitting day-_

Drehn had headed off through the thinning woods alone, carefully maintaining the illusion that he was not one person, but a crowd. His friends' stolen personal effects helped him, there, but the elf still had to keep up a reasonable large-party pace, including stops for such things as comfort breaks and horse feeding.

All seemed well at first. The forest land thinned into swamp, so he adjusted a few words of the spell in accordance, making his shadow-party just obvious enough to rouse interest, without trumpeting: _decoy._ It was a quite decent effort, but mortals make their plans like a child builds his tower of blocks; with touching and quickly-smashed care.

There was no warning at all but a sudden darkening of the swamp's dreary atmosphere. Everything froze but Drehn, including Grayling and the phantoms he'd conjured for cover and company. All at once, the elf was like an insect creeping across the still tints and lines of a large painting; alone amid frozen turmoil. Then, something formed itself from shadow, mist and pent wind. A messenger.

Indistinct and shifting, it drifted toward Grayling's outstretched neck; like all such spirits, eager for blood. Drehn spelled it back with snarled, burning words, the defensive magic given power because he genuinely cared for the horse, not because he had much ability. Fire spells, transport and illusion were close to all he had left, now.

Temporarily balked, the thirsting messenger withdrew just a bit. Then, whispering into cold, waiting stillness, it circled and said,

_"Think not that She's let you escape Her, drow. You are marked past hope or recovery and She will have back Her own. Listen well, for by Her will I appear to you thrice. This time… one further, to serve as reminder… and at the opportune moment, to offer a simple choice: you may die, or select another to go in your stead. No one will know what you've done, for you shall not be permitted to speak of our meetings. In either case, once you've died, you return to Her. Think long and well of the reception that awaits a rebellious servant, drow. Should you choose the knight as replacement, you shall be granted an additional three-hundred years… and a place of honor, when at last you join us, below. Think very well."_

A curl of dank mist oozed forth, brushing the elf's pallid face as though marking him. Then her messenger vanished, snuffed like the sputtering flame of a dead man's candle. Time resumed at once, leaving a badly shaken Drehn to slip from his saddle to the muck-snowy ground.

Think… he had to think. There was always a cheat, a trick, a way out. But, as Grayling snuffed fondly at his silver hair, then wandered away to paw snow from a clump of withered marsh grass, all Drehn could visualize was death. His own… or someone else's.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Further north, in the icy tangles of nowhere-_

Glud led their party across frigid grey bottom-land to the base of a scowling dark cliff, where heavy timbers fenced up and walled a large cave mouth. There were beast pens and clucking reptile-birds in the muddy yard before it, giving to the place the noisome air of a very odd farm.

Glud stared for a long moment, and then braced himself to start forward. Looking aside at the others, he rumbled,

"Wait here. Try to seem not weak, and not tempting."

Then, as his companions sat working out how one managed to look powerful and uninteresting, the half-orc strode to the door of his mother's house. Clenching a massive fist, he hammered at the foot-thick wood beams until pebbles and ice showered down onto him, and the cliff-side boomed with his echoes.

At length, a spiked door was flung open, and another half-orc emerged; this one very well-armed and glowering. He was nearly as tall as Glud, but more human-seeming. On the surface, at least.

Without greeting or preamble, Glud seized the big, brutish half-man by his forelock of brown hair, and then wrestled him over the muddy barnyard to Gawain.

"Voreig… friends. Friends… Voreig, my third littermate. This is home. No fighting in mother's house, ever. No spitting, and go outside to do your naturals. We never kill a guest once bread has been shared. Those are the rules."

Gawain eyed the new half-orc, who ripped himself free of Glud's hold to stare challengingly back at him. Right, then. No fighting… indoors.

Mounted before him, Anelle was wide-eyed and dumbstruck. (But one had to forgive her, as she hadn't got out very much.) Frodle wove subtle spells of peace and camaraderie from his own perch atop stout little Dapple, while Allat simply fluttered off to land amid those scabrous yard birds. They rattled and pecked him.

"Pleased t' make y'r acquaintance," Gawain said after a moment, vaguely recalling his manners. Because it was the polite thing to do, he placed a steadying arm around Anelle, and then leaned from the saddle to offer a handshake. Voreig grunted and took the proffered limb, clamping down like a sharply-slammed door. Gawain crunched back, _hard._ Bones might have powdered and tempers flared on both sides, had not the witch and orc-wife… Glud's mother… come all at once to her still-open door.

"Lords of Earth and Sky!" she gasped. "Visitors! Glud, what's this you've brought to me?"

That she was a witch, he could tell. One pulsing with charms and amulets, and easily powerful enough to keep order among five savage offspring and assorted wild beasts. Besides Voreig, she had a veritable menagerie roaming the yard and cavern, including a very young, three legged centaur colt.

"My mother, Samara," Glud muttered.

Voreig released his grip with guilty haste, a fact which Gawain tucked away for later consideration. Obviously, snarly-haired and simply dressed though she was, the woman commanded great respect. So he murmured reassuringly to Anelle, then swung himself down from the saddle and handed up the reins.

George received an affectionate pat before Gawain crossed the ice-crusted yard to Glud's mother. Bowing a little, he cleared his throat and said,

"Terribly sorry t' trouble you, ma'am. I am S… I'm Gawain, of… no place in particular, at the moment, havin' no better claim on y'r time an' patience than th' friendship of y'r son, Glud. He suggested that we might stop here, awhile, t' make arrangements f'r th' lady, and await th' return of a friend."

She had bright blue eyes… Glud's eyes… and a wry sort of smile. Tucking a hank of tangled blonde hair behind one ear, she said,

"You're terribly polite to a mere witch, Sir Knight, and fairly well concealed… if one isn't particularly searching for you. Not your own magicks, I sense… as I ken loss, and a great, searing fall. Setting aside pretty words, then, what brings you here? Fear… or need?"

A strange question, oddly put, but one that he answered quite truthfully.

"Need," Gawain admitted. "Our provisions are low an' th' horses exhausted. We've had rather a difficult journey, and would appreciate, of y'r good courtesy, th' chance t' rest."

"I see."

Glud had stalked up, by this time, trailing big, sullen Voreig. The witch shifted her glance from Gawain, and then stepped away to pull her newly returned son into a fierce, warm embrace.

"About time you came back!" she scolded, next cuffing him roughly aside. "Too busy traveling the world to visit your own mother, eh? Or even send word? Well… see to the animals, then. The west chamber's clear but for the centaur colt's bedding and fodder. Muck it out, and fetch more water and grain. _You,"_ she whirled upon Voreig, who'd positioned himself to keep a level, hard stare trained on Gawain.

"…Go catch something _normal_. The knight and his lady will be wanting their supper, and so will their company. _Move!"_

The smaller half-orc grunted (evidently, he didn't speak very well). Stooping to kiss his mother's pale cheek, he shot a seething last look at Gawain, and then strode away, humming. Glud, in the meantime, seemed terribly anxious. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in squelching cold mud, rather than directly obeying the witch.

Brooking neither hesitation nor disrespect, his mother raised a slim hand and spell-prodded him. Deviled by many small lightning bolts, off trotted Glud. The witch chuckled, returning with visible reluctance to her 'guest'.

"I am Samara," she told Gawain. "Once wife to Krall, who lies dead these twelve years and more. Though… on certain nights… we still speak. I loved him well, and bore him five sons, Sir Knight. Does any of this trouble you?"

Gawain's eyes flicked over to Lady Anelle, who'd dismounted to stretch a hand to the shy, limping centaur colt. A wee spotted roan, it was, and quite intrigued by Anelle's offering of way-bread and dried figs.

"Goodwife Samara, I don't pretend t' fathom all matters of th' heart. It is enough that you loved him once and still do."

The witch's smile and hooded eyes altered, then, thawing just a little.

"Come in," she said, "all of you. And welcome."


	67. 67: Trade Off

Starts kind of grim, but turns hopeful, toward the end, honest. And thanks, Sam, Cathrl, Tikatu, ED and Panoply, for reviewing. Edited. A small thing, but it bugged me, so I fixed it.

**67: Trade Off**

_Darwin, Australia; outside the main hospital-_

"I never saw 'er! Lor' bless the child, officer… I never saw 'er comin'! She ran right 'crost the road… _and I couldn't bloody stop!"_

Anguished, the cab driver clutched at his broken arm, and wept. He was badly hurt, himself, near bad as that poor little girl, but he would have taken twice as much to have spared her entirely, with her best mate and all the others who'd swerved to avoid his cab and its sprawled victim. Instead, ten cars and lorries had piled up, with injuries ranging from whiplash and scrapes, to shattered bones and massive internal hemorrhaging. The cab driver couldn't stop crying.

Police and emergency vehicles materialised within minutes, for the hospital was very near. They took rapid, professional care of terribly hurt Joyce and hysterically sobbing Amy; of the cabbie himself, and the other stunned, wounded drivers. ...And strangely enough, there was no loss of life.

Meanwhile, drawn to the window by all of that noise and commotion, Virgil Tracy looked out, but wasn't able to see past the edge of the building. He couldn't quite tell what had happened, but judging by all of the sudden, tense, intercom squawk, it was serious.

"Something's going on," he said uneasily, turning away from the window, bathed in faint, flashing gleams of red light. "Maybe I should head outside for a look around, Scott."

Frowning, his oldest brother nodded assent, and began to get up. Someone else was moving, as well. The Hood at first exulted in all the chaos, pain and horror he'd wrought. But then, bit by bit, order took hold. Wounds were stanched, prisoning metal peeled back, glass brushed gently away, pain assuaged. In short, help had arrived, and to him this was bitter as coffee with gall; sour as vomit. The Hood couldn't abide it… he had to flee… but not before lashing out one last time. The boy was nearest, so it was Alan he struck at, viciously.

From typing in game commands, Alan Tracy suddenly flashed forward to an afternoon's duty watching the desk. Boring as crap, usually. Except, this time, things were different. He was a thousand miles away from his slowly dying brother, Gordon.

Alan mashed repeatedly on the T4 button, renewing contact every few seconds because then his brother's wrist comm would beep, maybe rousing him just long enough to hang on. The rescue had gone horribly wrong, leaving Gordon trapped in a rapidly-flooding tunnel, clinging to a rusted debris grate that he'd lost too much blood… grown too weak… to force open. But Scott and Virgil were on their way, John summoning assistance from every source available, all but selling his soul for a miracle… while Alan could do nothing at all but talk.

"Gordon, hang on, man! Okay? They're coming! You gotta hang in there!"

Blurrily, the trapped aquanaut responded; his words slow and uncertain. Not at all like strong, laughing, stupidly brave Gordon.

_"Tryin', Alan… but…"_

Desperation made Alan's words tumble and snap, made his hands shake as he leaned even farther forward to repress the comm button (bright yellow, T4).

"Okay, listen to me, Gordon: save your breath. Just shut up and listen. You're my best friend, okay? Ever since we met on the island! Scott and Virgil are almost there, and I'm gonna keep talking… so you gotta promise to hang on a little longer! Gordon…? Come on, man, don't _do_ this…! _Please…?"_

_"Sorry, mate…truly am…"_

He'd have jumped straight through the line if he could have. He'd have been there with bandages and a plasma cutter… with an air-mask and a blanket, instead of _here;_ unable to do anything but push that button for another long blast of dead static. Crying out, tear-blinded, Alan picked up whatever he could grab, and threw it all at the stupid, lying comm panel, wanting it to shut up and stop.

Somebody pulled him away and someone else tried to hold him, but he fought them off, raging like a tormented animal. There was no comfort for Alan when his brother's heart was jerking out a few last thumps; when rising black water, tasting of rust and abandonment, filled up his aching lungs.

There was more, but in the next vision, he couldn't even talk. He saw Thunderbird 5, restored and beautiful, better than ever before, and John was there, but… For some reason, his blond older brother was powering the station _down_. The astronaut's face was icy-calm, his left wrist bloodied and bruised, like he'd cut out his ID chip, or something, and not even bothered to bandage the mess.

Alan looked on, helpless and horrified, as John uploaded some kind of "erasure virus" and then began methodically hitting switches and buttons in Thunderbird 5's control center. One by one, quicker than Alan could list them, he cut off the computers, the generators, the station's artificial gravity, lights and comm… even life support.

_"What are you doing?" _Alan wanted to scream. _"John, no! Stop it!"_

But the nightmare wouldn't end, and his grim, driven brother couldn't hear him. Instead, John turned Thunderbird 5 into a frozen tomb, containing just a single doomed spark. He then left the con center and drifted along the tunnels, hauling himself through darkness and silence with quick tugs and kicks at the bulkheads. He'd long since memorized the station's layout, Alan knew.

The astronaut had a purpose in mind. A goal. After three minutes of drift-kicking, John reached an airlock and halted before it, jamming one outstretched long arm against the rim. Working rapidly (with never a pause or second thought) he manually opened the inner hatch, and then hauled himself through.

At first, Alan's terrified guess was that John somehow planned to space himself, but that wasn't what happened. He'd had bad dreams, before. The kind you can't run fast enough or scream enough loudly to break out of. But, he _tried_… you gotta believe that, okay? He _tried_ to stop his brother from doing it.

John halted in mid-airlock, then pulled two very different things from an inside uniform pocket. One was a shiny gold band… a wedding ring… that hovered above his palm for a second or two before being caught and quietly slipped onto the third finger of his bloodied left hand. The other was a gun. You can't turn away in dreams, not even when you want to.

In real life, at the same instant that a smoothly-pulled trigger turned Thunderbird 5 into a grave, Alan Tracy bolted from his chair, screaming,

_"NO!"_

The PS Nano dropped from his grasp and he stepped on it, kicked it skittering across the floor, in his hurry to reach Gordon's room.

"Alain…? What is it that has happened?" TinTin asked him, or something like that, but the boy didn't answer. He raced up the hallway, instead, as the hospital intercom began blasting repeated orders for this doctor and that to report to ER. He almost fell through the door to room 323 when Virgil jerked it suddenly open. And there was at least _one_ of his (not-dead, couldn't-be-dead, please-let-there-be-time) brothers. Gordon; alive, breathing and stupid-looking as ever.

Alan couldn't find words. He lost every bit of cool and poise he'd ever had, and accidentally tore Gordon's IV needle out, hugging him like that. Set off an alarm noise, too, but for some reason, the nurses were too busy to come in and check up, the swimmer too shocked to break free.

Scott and Virgil together hauled him off of poor Gordon (who should have been done with all those tubes and monitors by now, anyways). His oldest brother shook the boy, who felt like he'd just been given a sudden, free re-start. He just had to... y'know... not waste it.

"Alan, damn it, calm down!" Scott snapped at him. "What's the matter with you? TinTin? _You_ have any idea what's gotten into him?"

The wide-eyed girl had followed him into the room. She shook her head and started to speak, but _she_ didn't know and couldn't act to change things. Alan still could. He _had_ to. Jerking free of Scott's grasp, the boy pivoted to face Virgil, TinTin and Gordon, saying,

"Where's John? Has he made it home, yet? For serious, guys! You need to get on that comm right the heck now, _right_ _now_, and talk to him. Something's gonna happen to John!"


	68. 68: Blindsight

Hey, there. This one's less chilling, I think. First edit. Thanks for reviews muchly, folks.

**68: Blindsight**

_Sundown, room 323, the Royal Darwin Hospital-_

Scott Tracy took his youngest brother seriously, perhaps because Alan had had such a good idea before, with that RPG-code thing. And, maybe, because this business with a returned and active Hood was starting to worry him. At any rate, as the sun went down and Virgil left the room, Scott hit his wrist comm to John. A little dry-mouthed, he said,

"Rocketman, from remote location Beta… you read me, little brother?"

Your stomach could clamp itself into a damned icy lump, waiting so long for an answer. Thirty seconds passed like a life sentence. Then, once again using a code name for the astronaut, Scott snapped,

"Repeating: Rocketman from remote location Beta. How do you read?"

Nothing came back but silence and static, as craftily blank as a tightly-locked door. Gordon was already out of bed and heading for the closet, Alan hovering so close that Scott could see the boy's reflection in his Rolex-style wrist comm. That... and the constant red glow of outdoor emergency lights. _Shit. Now what?_

Taking a deep breath, the pilot switched tactics. He called in to Island Base, and got Hackenbacker (thank God it wasn't Grandma… he couldn't have faced the old woman with news like this).

"Brains, what's the story on your buddy? He there, yet?"

Hackenbacker replied using voice only, because of the unsecured location. But Scott didn't need to see the man's face to sense his concern.

_"N- Negative, Beta. Our, ah… our friend is overdue, and off r-radar."_

Scott nodded dully. He'd been a fighter pilot, and had lost more squad mates and friends than just Mad Dog. No special reason why a cold and precise brother should be immune to the law of averages… Except that Scott could see him; reasoning with the dog, plotting to overthrow their tyrannical babysitter, laying Rube Goldberg traps for Santa Claus. Saw him sitting on mom's lap, keeping the scoreboard for all of Scott's little league games. Because this wasn't just a squad mate, you see. This was John.

"Understood, Base. Um… call the director and let him know what's going on, please… and put out some kind of general alert, until we can get something going, ourselves."

Code and more code… Gordon was nearly dressed now, with the help of a sympathetic, face-averted TinTin. Alan had turned away to kick at the walls.

_"FAB. W- Will call, ah… call back in thirty m- minutes with any further updates,"_ Brains told them all.

Then,

"FAB," Scott whispered back as he ended contact, letting his insides and heart go clinically cold.

Virgil returned a few moments later, shoving the door so hard that it ricocheted back from the wall and hit him. Or would have done, if he hadn't batted it fiercely away. His handsome face was taut with fury.

"Goddam sonuvabitch!" Virgil snarled, before Scott could ask what else had gone wrong. "If he's back, and that _was_ him, Scott, I swear to God I'll kill him myself! Those poor girls…"

Forcibly calming himself with closed eyes and measured breaths, Virgil turned to face Gordon. After a moment, the big, dark-haired pilot stepped forward and placed a hand on either of his brother's shoulders.

"Kiddo, I'm sorry," he said. "One of your friends seems to have pulled another suicide-stunt and run out into the street. She got hit by a car, is all I heard… but I don't think she's dead. The other's in shock. They're down in ER, with the victims of a freeway pileup... Wait! Gordon, _don't. _No matter how much you want to help, there's nothing you can do but get in the way."

Wasted breath, because his younger brother had stopped listening. Jamming his feet into the shoes TinTin brought him, Gordon twisted free and started for the door.

"I'll not leave without seein' them," he said. "Haven't you realized? Anythin' that bastard's done has been aimed at _us_. Amy an' Joyce were just means t' his end, weren't they? An' that makes what's happened t' them as much _our_ fault as his!"

Pausing with a white-knuckled hand on the doorsill, Gordon added,

"I'll be quick as I can, Virgil, but I _must_ see them. Whoever's still conscious... I've got t' let her know we're on top of things. That we'll get it all sorted, an' they've nothin' further t' fear."

"Yeah," the big pilot nodded. "Guess I can understand that. Do what you have to, kiddo, but make it fast. We'll meet up in the lobby at my comm signal. Be listening."

Scott might have had a different outlook, but he didn't contradict Virgil's decision. Instead, as Gordon left the room with TinTin and Alan, Scott resumed calling one younger brother, while the other muttered and paced alongside.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The Pacific Ocean, aboard __Defiant__-_

Down in their combination conference and editing room, the Discovery Adventure team sat gathered around a long table, having supper, and a lively debate. The sun was down and the weather roughening, causing the deck to pitch and sway just a bit, and sloshing their coffee. They hardly noticed, what with so much attention being focused on food and the laptop screen.

"Question is," Farrell was saying, tucking into a three-decker ham sandwich while staring at a series of satellite images, "how far do we want to push this? Terra Nova's still active, and _anything_ could happen down there. What d'you think, people? Send a remote, or draw straws for a look-see in Hector_?"_

Across from Farrell, whose grey eyes never left the ash-blurred Google-Earth pictures, Larry Howard mimed shaking an invisible fortune-telling eight ball. After mysterious words and a good, rough shake-up, the balding medic consulted his phantom oracle.

"Survey says: _Down we go, because genuine risk to actual people is always sexier than a fried robot."_

"Yeah," Karen cut in, shaking back her sun-streaked blonde hair, "and it's also why we needed a new cameraman, all of a sudden. I mean, sure, plastic surgery can accomplish a lot, these days, but Frank still probably wishes we'd gone with the robot. I know _I_ do. Not that, you know, I'm opting out, if we do go the Hector route."

Mariska got up and crossed the pitching deck to pour herself another cup of coffee, snipping,

"What're you worried about, Karen? Your fan mail? Or does actual science figure into this, somewhere?"

Karen balled up a paper napkin and threw it, striking Mariska's sleek brown ponytail dead on.

"Both," she admitted, "Because data and fame equal publicity, and publicity equals funding. QED. See there? So simple and straightforward, even an online university _archeologist_ could understand it!"

Mariska grinned savagely and threw back the paper wad.

"Glory hound!" she kidded.

"Crypto-philosophical has-been!"

Ever a rock amid chaos, Farrell rubbed at his short, salt-and-pepper beard. Thinking aloud, he straightened from the laptop screen and said,

"Okay… how about this? We pick up the pace, arrive at Terra Nova a few days ahead of schedule, and send the robocam down to reconnoiter the situation _unofficially_. Off the record, is what I'm trying to say, here. Then, depending on what the remote picks up, we can plan on a live-camera descent in Hector. Reactions? Questions, comments… bribes?"

Some felt one way, some the other, but everyone's input halted cold when a WNN breaking news segment flashed onscreen.

_Plane down in the south Pacific!_ It blared. _Astronaut missing! Search declared!_

Farrell maximized the news window with a sharp, stabbing click, and everyone gathered round for a better look. They took in the details… luxury Gulfstream, lone but experienced NASA pilot, bad weather and possible instrument failure… as well as the search area and an official astronaut portrait of John Tracy. Good looking young fellow, startlingly blond, with a far-off "I hate cameras" glaze on his perfectly chiseled face. Weirdly else, according to the WNN news files, his father had been downed and stranded in the same general region, many years earlier. Small world, huh?

Shane Poston had leaned past Farrell's shoulder to check out the news report and "all available vessels" search request. Rubbing at his favorite dragon tattoo, the goateed cameraman said,

"I dunno about anyone else… I'm still sorta new, here… but I think we'd get awesome publicity and still beat the mob to Terra Nova, if we diverted awhile to help locate, um… Tracy." (He had a devilish hard time not calling the familiar young rescuer "Art", like Bambi had.)

Farrell looked around at Larry, Mariska and Karen. One by one, the rest of his team nodded assent.

"Okay… tell you what: we'll divert for three days to look for the astronaut, _without_ saying anything about our course change to Omni. After all…" Their leader stood all the way up, stretching and grinning, "…it's better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, right?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Somewhat earlier, flying low and blind-_

All at once, the mental cloud bank vanished, and John was prodded awake by the hissing-faint sound of a transmitted voice. Scott.

_"…need… location and status, little brother… in, over?"_

He tried to respond, but then (like everything else in that darkened cockpit but the pilot himself) his wrist comm just died. A last, lovely parting gift from someone who very much wanted him dead… or else the circuit breakers. Yeah, could be. Despite repeated attempts to flip and reset them, though, he got no instruments, no comm. Just the fading tail-end of a fuel alert. Okay, next move.

Ignoring a sudden migraine, John flipped to channel 211 and called in his emergency, over a headset mic as dead as the wrist comm.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Gulfstream Delta Tango Bravo two-niner-seven, flying out of Darwin, Australia en route to Kanaho, declaring emergency. Repeat: Gulfstream Delta Tango Bravo two-niner-seven going down, location uncertain. Low fuel and instrument failure at fault. Request assistance from any available ship or aircraft."

Damn. Even to himself, he sounded detached, but there'd be plenty of time for 'scared shitless' later, John supposed… assuming there _was_ a later. Didn't seem likely at the moment, though, because it was too dark to see, the plane was being hammered from all directions at once like a chew-toy, and his instruments had gone ahead to their just reward. Okay… so, his impulse was to hold her straight and level, fighting for altitude and life, but then something unexpected happened.

A few of the instruments began to show a very faint gleam, like the wave-riding plankton below. No figures or images, though; just a pale, ghost-in-the-machine flicker. That was interesting, but before he got his hopes up that power had somehow returned to the shorted (or something) control panel, John got a powerful urge to bank right 45 degrees, drop his landing gear and descend as near to 20 feet per second as he could manage. Might've been another deadly compulsion, except that this time, he didn't feel fuzzy. Just… guided.

"Use the force, huh?" he sort of joked, because panic was attempting to set its hooks. "What the hell. Why not?"

What did he have to lose? The avionics were sluggish, but operable. So, he put her into a sharp right bank, throttled down and pushed forward on the yoke. With his other hand (the not-stinging one) he manually triggered the 'drop landing gear' sequence. A nice, dry procedural list filled his head, shoving emotion back where it damn well belonged. He wasn't a praying man, but he thought: _be nice if there's something actually down there._ Besides water, that is.

After that, he just kept descending, listening as first one, then the other engine coughed, choked and died on him. There was nothing but wind-roar then, and the lashing splatter of rain. Quite a nerve-wracking combination, for a brand new glider pilot.

Prompted by a sudden screen flicker, John flared the nose up, just as though he had some kind of blindsight, and could actually _see_ a short, crappy runway on some flyspeck, World War II era…

**THUMP!**

…And then bounce, judder, _thump_ again. Rougher than hell, but a solid contact. Rear wheels down, and his heart was thudding along fast enough to slam a hole through his chest. Then, _BAM,_ the nose gear hit concrete, rattling like dice in a cup over separate small islands of cracked runway. Worst ride of his life, to date; like getting towed in parachute harness behind a swerving speedboat, toward unseen sharp reefs.

He hit the brakes, hard; lowering all flaps and clamping the wheels, promising the plane he'd _marry_ her, if the damn thing would just stop. There were trees ahead, he suddenly realized, observing a dense, tossing blackness. Big sons of bitches that probably hadn't smashed a plane and pilot since the battle for Midway. Well, too bad; John had no desire at all to add to their score.

The landing was an ugly, tooth-rattling nightmare that hurled him against his seat straps and left a big purple bruise on his chest. The plane stopped, though; slightly slanted, like he'd blown a tire, or come partway off the tarmac. And somehow, instead of being crushed like a bug or drowned, he'd made it down.

John sat for a few minutes, shaking hands with life. Somewhere outside, monster surf was chewing the shore. Rain pattered in fitful bursts at the windows and fuselage, kind of prettily. Nice sound, he meant. But he took a deep breath, let it out again, and got on with things, because that's what you did: stay alive, take stock, and take action. Stick to the checklist.

First, communicate the situation… or try to. Hitting his useless wrist comm (not the usual piece-of-shit Timex clone; Cindy's _extra_-crappy version, modified for IR purposes) John said,

"Scott, if you can hear me, I'm down in one piece. Somewhere that has an old, untended airstrip, but your guess is as good as mine as to _where._ Anyhow… yeah. I'll call in with a more complete status report in the morning, once I've had a chance to check all the circuit breakers and wiring. Suggest you watch for "outside influences" in the meantime, because I'm positive now that an old acquaintance is up and around. Talk to you later, Scott."

There was no answer, of course. Nothing but rain and sea and mewling wind. Right. Next up: take all required survival measures.

The plane had a small, tidy head which John located by feel and made use of. After that, he swallowed a few aspirin and caught a string of brief cat-naps in the pilot's seat. He didn't sleep well, wondering what was happening back home. After all, if the Hood could reach into an aircraft and make its pilot dump fuel, veer off course and somehow destroy his own flight instruments… what could be done elsewhere? At a hospital, say, or the partly-repaired mansion? Grandma, Kyrano, Gennine, Fermat and Ike were there; just a couple of old folks, a kid, a female and Brains. Then there was dad, out in Colorado with Penelope and a few security guards; out of touch and unprepared. No… John didn't sleep well, at all.

But dawn came along like she always did, full of waking concerns and bullshit promises, giving the astronaut a good, hard look at his temporary home.


	69. 69: Hope and Despair

Many thanks for the recent reviews ED, Tikatu and Panoply. (And Tikatu, for the useful future development.) Edited.

**69: Hope and Despair**

_Colorado at the luxury Broadmoor Resort Hotel-_

All at once, the universe had plunged from controlled and knowable, to absolute chaos. Brains' phone call, his gut-twisting news, had converted Jeff's certainty all to mist and blown ash. One of his sons was lost, downed somewhere in mid-Pacific, while the others were far from home, powerless to mount a rescue. Well, Jeff decided, shutting his phone with a snap, not for long.

He kissed Penelope's beautiful face (she was a vision that night in palest pink and flashing diamonds) and then left the hotel balcony for one of its shielded comm-booths. There, he could make a call without being heard or imaged from without. High-level contract negotiations were a cut-throat business, and just about _any_ news was saleable. Doubtless, once word got out that Jeff Tracy's son had gone missing, (not his heir, but the spare; an astronaut) stock prices would plummet. After all, how could a beleaguered CEO expect to negotiate, with all that on his mind? In fact, some of the press would probably fling words like _conspiracy_ and _kidnap. …_And maybe they were right.

The comm booth was a shielded cubicle of dark glass, just large enough for tall, broad-shouldered Jeff and his sylph-like companion. Tracy Aerospace security guards ranged themselves outside the comm-booth; some obvious, most not. Then the doors shut.

Penelope's face was oddly stiff in the cubicle's bright, chilly lighting. She jumped at the hiss and sharp click of its dura-sealed doors, though she'd used such facilities, before. Inside, there were two center-facing benches, slightly curved, with a pedestal-mounted comm screen between them. Jeff ignored the latter, instead raising his right hand and pressing the face of his Omega-style wrist comm, setting its channel for Scott.

_"Dad?"_ his oldest son whispered, evidently not in a very secure location. No visuals, meaning that he was probably trying to pass off the watch as a mere eight-thousand dollar Rolex.

"It's me, Scott. I'll keep this short. Any word from your brother?"

_"Nothing new. I've been trying all channels, and Brains is sounding the alarm. We'll be headed home just as soon as Virge is through with Gordon's discharge paperwork. Things are a little hectic, around here."_

Hospitals often were. Rather impatiently, Jeff told him,

"I'm coming home. The negotiating team can handle things here. That's what I pay them for."

But Scott seemed reluctant. Also, judging from his many brief pauses and occasional whispered asides, he'd begun walking rapidly off with another.

_"Not a good idea, sir. Both Gordon… and John were attacked… (Yeah, you go ahead. Be right with you) …Anyhow, they were nailed while away from public view and relatively isolated. Gordon had a couple of civilian females along, but they weren't any good at all... they just got caught in the cross-fire. I think we can assume that our old friend's behind all this… and that he still likes to strike from below. So, with… (Tell them they can email the damn prescriptions!) …with all due respect, dad, stay where you are, and stay with Lady Penelope. You'll come off with a real hardass reputation that way, and…you won't be so likely to get hit. Make sense?"_

Yes, but that didn't mean that he had to like it.

"I'll think it over," Jeff temporized. "You're probably right, son, but I hate to be stuck on the fringes playing high finance, when the real game is somewhere else. Besides, I'm highly familiar with this scenario." He'd crash-landed in the Pacific himself, once. Twice, if you counted that time on Tracy Island, when he'd broken his leg.

_"All I'm suggesting is that you stay back for awhile, sir. Just 'til we've caught our rat. In the meantime, if you have any influence with the World Navy or Coast Guard, could you ramp up the search effort? I think it's safe to say that WASP isn't exactly chomping at the bit to jump in."_

Needless to say.

"I'll see what I can do from this end, son," Jeff replied, just before ending the call. "But, one way or another, I _am_ coming home soon, and we _will_ find your brother. Alive and well."

_"Understood, sir. As I say, it was just a suggestion."_

"Right. Keep me posted. Tracy, _out_."

With that, Jeff blanked the wrist comm and then shifted his gaze to Penelope, who'd sunk onto one of the leather-topped benches in a soft, big-eyed swirl of pale chiffon. One of her hair clips, shaped like Orion, caught the booth's lighting and sent it back in quivering rainbow splinters. Her hands were tightly clasped on her lap.

"Penny," Jeff began, a bit huskily, "I'm afraid that I won't be much company for awhile, but given Scott's warning, I'd like you to stay nearby, regardless. We can watch each other's behavior for sudden quirks… hopefully spot anything odd or dangerous before it turns deadly."

She nodded distractedly.

"Dreadful shame," Penny whispered, "about John. He… he has rather an engaging way of turning up again, though, hasn't he…?"

Jeff agreed, handing her up.

"Yes, and so did I, when a practice mission went bad, out there. He may not be Scott or Virgil, but John's been survival-trained by NASA. We'll find him... and then, once he's rescued, I'm going to beat the hell out of him for disrupting my conference and worrying his brothers and grandmother."

...Not to mention failing miserably as a negotiator for Ile St. Martin. Honestly, the boy had no basic horse sense. Smart, surely; give him that… but no good at all with money. Look at his clothes and accessories, for instance. If NASA hadn't guided his wardrobe selection… if he hadn't had an IR uniform to put on… the boy would have dressed like a damn street person.

Penny was squeezing Jeff's hand rather tightly, pressing herself to his side like an insecure date. Good cover, and nice of her to express so much concern over John. The thought of her absolute, regal fitness as wife material distracted Jeff Tracy right up to the point that he opened the comm-booth doors and found himself facing a familiar and unwelcome personage.

"Good evening, Mr. Tracy," the severe, thin-lipped bureaucrat said to him, flashing a WorldGov ID badge. "My name is Aldous Cleeves. We've met before, as I'm sure you recall, and I'd like to ask a few questions. In private."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_An island in mid-Pacific-_

With daylight came clarity, and a weird, nagging sense of recognition. John Matthew ate a packet of cheese crackers and took a small drink of water before donning his waistband holster and loaded pistol for the trip outside. Nothing like a Colt .36-caliber police special to inspire self confidence, huh? That particular gun he'd picked up in Spartanburg a few years back, at a pawn shop, of all places. They were, in a manner of speaking, old comrades.

Manually lowering the Gulfstream's boarding stairs, John deplaned for a look around. Damn hot, was the first thing he noticed, with the sun smashing down like a bludgeon; not far above the horizon, yet, but already brighter than flaring magnesium. Well, he had shelter of sorts, in the aircraft, though it might become stifling unless he kept its doors open. Other rapid impressions were the dank, salty reek of ocean water, a strong, gusting wind, and rustling, green-black foliage, along with a smattering of hoarse bird calls. So much for "Welcome to Fill-in-the-Blank".

Whatever. John went carefully down the stairs, looking around as he went. The airstrip was a mess, cracked and deformed by intrusive tree roots. There were tall weeds pushing through the fractured tarmac, except where his blind, hasty touchdown had crushed them. The smell of snapped, oozing plants was still strong, attracting insects and other small vermin. Easy to tell where he'd been, anyhow.

Stepping off the boarding stairs, John circled Virgil's plane. He walked the battered runway slowly, pausing every so often to replace a chunk of tipped concrete, or tamp weeds and rocks into a particularly offensive gap. Because _maybe…_ if someone brought fuel… he'd be taking off, again.

John trailed a hand along the jet's fuselage as he went, just like he was walking around a very large horse (made of sun-heated metal and gently swelled rivets). Checked the Rolls-Royce engines for obvious FOD trouble… had a look at her tail assembly… examined the canard-tipped wings and… _shit_! He'd lost a tire, all right; the left nose wheel, dammit.

Squatting down for a closer look at shredded, burnt-smelling rubber, John saw that the wheel's metal hub was jammed in a massive, weedy crevice. Dammit, again. In fact, make that a double. Aloud, though, he made light of the problem. Patting the nose-gear's long strut, John looked upward and said,

"Sorry about that, beautiful. Knowing Virgil, there's a spare in the hold somewhere, though, and we'll get you fixed up. Promise."

Better be a hydraulic jack in there, too, because how else was he going to lever that wheel from its concrete prison? He'd think of something, John supposed, getting back to his feet with a very soft grunt, and dusting his hands. Even here, there was too much damned ash.

The runway didn't extend very far past the Gulfstream's elegant nose. He really _had_ stopped just in time, maybe thirty feet shy of an ugly palisade of huge, propeller-scarred trees. Keeping one hand on the jet, feeling against his lower back the comforting, holstered weight of his pistol, John leaned forward to peer through the tree trunks. Vines, moss, crawling things, rusted aircraft fragments… your basic nightmare.

Not that wilderness (the unfortunate lack of civilization, pizza and working machines) made him nervous, exactly… just that he usually left that sort of thing to Virgil and Scott. _His_ closest contacts with nature tended to be all-night astronomy marathons, up on a cleared hilltop, somewhere. Despite NASA's best efforts, he was _not_ effing George of the Jungle, as sun-warmed titanium and a hard, heavy weapon reminded him. Okay… so, what else was around, besides forest primeval?

To his right, John could hear a rumbling and hissing of heavy surf, though his view of the conjectured shoreline was occluded by more of those giant trees. Yeah. Giving the Gulfstream another fond pat, he decided to walk _down_ the runway this time, checking out the rest of his fishbowl.

A wind blew strongly behind, while the rising sun cast a long, skinny shadow before him; deeper black on the splintered tarmac. He was facing westward, then; an observation supported by the faint "09" painted in white at the airstrip's crumbling terminus. In this direction, too, his negotiable world ended abruptly. There was a cliff and dark shore some fifty feet further, beyond which the ocean swirled and thundered around a few up-thrust, glistening rocks. Past that, though… just a thousand miles of rough, hungry water and pitiless sky.

The runway itself was approximately 3500 feet long, if he'd paced it off right. Just room enough for a turbo-assisted take-off… if he'd had any fuel. Off to his right lay the jungle-gnawed hulk of a stone building. Roofless, with a hollow, broken-window stare. Nearby, the rusted stubs of anti-aircraft guns projected from their round concrete turrets and low, sandbagged blockhouse. Other than that…

Someone had left an old ambulance parked by the larger building. It sat on corroded rims, now, and had a tree growing out through the windshield, a sight which troubled John as much as an unburied corpse would have shaken another man. Because this, too, was dead and forgotten. Alone, here.

So he went and sat down by the ambulance for awhile, not saying anything, just considering things. In a way, mourning. That strange sense of familiarity lay heavy on his mind; that feeling of… what, exactly? He'd never had a thing for 40's era Chryslers. The shattered headlights held nothing at all but cobwebs and moth-husks. The interior, just rusted, sprung seat frames and moldering leather. No answers.

_What the hell… what the hell… what the hell…_

Seriously, how had he known that this place was even here? An island with an airstrip, out in the midst of damn nowhere? All joking aside (along with his hallucinations about ghostly instrument guidance) why had he banked 45 degrees right and descended at precisely 20 feet per second, just long enough to land safely? Survival instinct would have bidden him to stay in the air as long as mechanically possible, unless…

John straightened suddenly, scraping against the rusting chrome bumper. Unless he already knew the place, because of his father's "missing, believed dead" situation, all those years earlier.

Damn… Mom had cried herself red-eyed and half-blind over that, forcing courage for the press, but collapsing into Uncle Pete's embrace, and Aunt Lydia's, when the cameras grudgingly left her alone. Scott and Virgil had been scared and confused by the change in routine, because they weren't allowed to go back to school, and no one would tell them _why._

John knew… he listened well at doors and through walls… but didn't want to explain that daddy wasn't going to come home on time. Maybe not ever. Instead, stupidly obsessed, he'd decided to figure things out for himself, and hire a grownup to go after his father, once the right spot had been found.

Motivated, he'd pored over maps and Google Earth images, working with all the childish tools at his disposal to locate his father's aircraft. He'd _memorized_ that circle of the Pacific, could have redrawn a scale map freehand, including major currents, water depths and prevailing winds. He'd even familiarized himself with the local sea life, thinking that dad might be fighting off sharks, and would appreciate a little advice.

Scott he'd let in on the project, because his big brother had more concession stand money saved up than John did. (Back then, anyway.) And they already knew who they'd hire to do all the legwork; Pete McCord, their good friend and "uncle".

Of course, WASP had found Jeff Tracy before his sons did, but that was beside the point. What mattered was that all of those hours spent sneaking into the den for time on dad's computer, all those nights with a flashlight and atlas under the blankets, had left John Tracy with an encyclopedic damn knowledge of the entire search area. Hell, yeah… he knew _exactly_ where he was; could see that miserable crescent of a flyspeck air-station in topographic, real time, or 3D color projection, including latitude, longitude and time zone. Fletcher's Rock. AKA: Mamao a'e. Funnily enough, just 300 miles north of where dad had gone down.

Sure, the Hood had clouded John's thinking. But his eyes had been open, and his brain processing data on _some_ level, taking in all the course adjustments and fleeting landmasses. Time, speed and distance. "Use the Force", nothing… He'd used what he _knew._ Mystery solved.

Now, all he had to do was get hold of Scott, dad or Brains, and get the hell out of Dodge. Funny, though… about that thing with his father... He hadn't thought about it in years. Had never told anyone but Scott of the rescue plan, or his dumbass compulsive research.

John stood up, placing a slim hand on the Chrysler's crumbling green hood. Funny how, back then, losing his _dad _had seemed like the worst that could possibly happen. Well, life and death had taught him better, hadn't they? Some wounds don't heal.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Darwin, Australia; the hospital-_

TinTin was desperately glad to escape the room, with its raw, sharp emotions; Virgil's fury, Scott's tension and pain, Gordon's outraged concern for the girls. Placing a calming thought upon the two elder freres-Tracy, she followed Alan and Gordon away into the hall. There was no difficulty in locating the hospital's emergency room, or in escaping detection, once there. All that TinTin had to do was exert a bit of influence, so that no one _wished_ for a time to look in their direction. A very long time.

They went undetected as far as the ER main corridor, where a mildly sedated Amy lay sobbing upon her wheeled gurney. Gordon raced forward at once, severely taxing TinTin's ability to hide him (and also releasing her hand). Going to Amy's bedside, he ignored rushing orderlies and cots, intercom noises and shouting hospital personnel to embrace and comfort the blonde girl. She hugged him back, shaking with terror and misery, whispering over and over,

"What happened, Gordon? I don't understand what _happened_…!"

To which Gordon responded with a tightened embrace, promising that everything, somehow, would turn out all right, and that she and her friend would be safe.

TinTin placed a soft, cooling frost over the awful burn of Amy's emotions and memory, calming her. Through the girl's mind, she felt the warmth of Gordon's hold, and experienced Amy's silly-shy-loving infatuation with him. In Amy's heart he was a hero, an avenging and rescuing knight. TinTin had to pull suddenly free and embrace _Alan_ to avoid being swept into similar feelings. Necessary, because Gordon was her friend, a good comrade and son of her father's employer. She could not share his bed, nor risk stabbing that kind, loyal heart.

Dieu merci, their wrist comms sounded all together, summoning TinTin, Alan and Gordon away. Alan was most reluctant to release her, until TinTin shoved her way loose and gave him the very bad head. Gordon never noticed. Kissing Amy's soft cheek once more, he said,

"It's all right now, Angel. We've got this… trust me. I'll be back t' visit, but until then, tell Joyce what I said, please, an' take care, th' both of you."

Their wrist comms buzzed louder, causing Gordon to pull free from the all-at-once sleepy girl. But as luck would have it, the noise _also_ reached the tall, striding figure of Dr. Kent Boanyoo, who slowed to look round. The dark eyes in that coarse-featured face surveyed the ER main corridor, puzzled and wary. Twice, his glance swept near the spot where TinTin stood, as though… almost… he'd sensed her presence.

She gasped, and shrank against Alan (who stood squinting with pain, dredging his pockets for aspirin). TinTin was at last able to redirect the physician, only just convincing him that his beeper had gone off. Then Gordon came back, fluidly tense as a prowling cat.

"Let's be off," he said, quietly. "We've vermin t' capture."


	70. 70: Shadow Play

I profess myself inspired by Sam1 and Tikatu. Thanks, ED, for pointing out the terrible wandering E, and Panoply for the intriguing suggestions. Edited!

**70: Shadow Play**

_Midworld, in the wintry north, at an orc-wife's den-_

Samara was quite obviously a witch, her form and home draped over with charms, crystals and amulets; herb bundles fastened, almost invisibly, in her long, tangled pale hair. Perhaps she was beautiful. Gawain couldn't say, for the over-all effect was one of defiant power and self-reliance, not the delicacy he'd been taught to expect from a lady.

She led them across the ice-rimed, animal-grimed yard to her home, which rang like a barn with lowing, brays and (from an elderly manticore) roaring. The front of her cavern was entirely devoted to beasts, much the way prosperous peasants might share their cottage with a few favored sheep, dogs or kine. Naturally, comfortably, the place resounded and smelt of animals; most of them familiar, a few exotic. The rheumy-eyed manticore's odor made him sneeze. Allat quite liked the monster, though, and quickly slipped shapes to speak with it. (But the thief made a singularly unimpressive specimen, himself; ill-favoured and small.)

The cavern had been wide to begin with, but had clearly been worked and added to, with here and there a chisel-cut, or the indented handprint of a dwarf on the shimmering dark walls. Curious, Gawain stooped to place his own hand over a magically pushed-in stonecutter's mark, and got a brief sense of its maker; squat, powerful Lothregn, hard-drinking and skillful, apprenticed to… The view faded, being older than Gawain's mind could well grasp.

The cavern's floor was covered in straw, which Glud was freshening for the horses. He seemed relieved to see Gawain, Allat, Frodle and Anelle, as though he hadn't been at all certain that his mother would relent and accept them. Gawain touched the half-orc's arm in thanks as they passed, for truly, the small party desperately needed shelter and rest.

Glud had tied his black hair back in ragged bunches and rolled his tunic sleeves up to pitch hay. He nodded in response to the knight's gesture, set aside his pitchfork and opened the pen's gate for George and Dapple. It was large enough for both of them and several more, besides, with plenty of fragrant straw, grain and even a spring-fed basin carved in the rear wall.

George snorted, pawing at the hay. Then he wandered across the pen to snuff and blow at the watering trough and lick a bit of salt. Finding all to his liking (the pen's timbers were well-placed for a good, hard scratch, even) the stallion rumbled contentedly, walking back to Gawain to have his trappings removed and his hide rubbed down. His ears twitched back and forth and his tail switched lazily this way and that as he snuffed the air with wide nostrils. Then George lifted his head and gave vent to a long, ringing whinny. Dapple responded in his smaller, gelded-pony voice, and the centaur colt capered delightedly, nearly collapsing until Anelle caught up and hugged him.

"As you see, sir knight," Samara remarked dryly, "your beasts shall be well cared for."

Gawain started to nod. Then, as his cloth-wielding left hand slowed its horse-rubbing strokes, he said,

"Y've no need to address me as 'Sir' anythin', Dame Samara. I've ceased t' be counted a proper knight, you see."

Samara's head cocked, setting up a slight rattle of crystals and amulets.

"Really? I'd say that what matters is how you count _yourself…_ good sir knight. Any fool with a sword can grant titles, but not every fool can honorably bear one."

Gawain resumed grooming his unsaddled horse, who'd turned to nip at him, displeased by the lapse in attention.

"So sorry. Won't happen again, m'lord," he joked lightly, nearly getting his foot trod upon for impertinence and poor service.

"I take it," he continued, combing through George's gold mane with his fingers, "…that you come of noble stock y'rself, goodwife?" For, she had the aspect of one who had never willingly bowed, nor bent the knee.

The witch smiled.

"You're a perceptive lad, I'll give you that. But if you're thinking you've found here an enchanted princess, go along with you! My father was a minor baronet who reached beyond his station. Once mother died of my brother's hard birth, he sought advancement through marriage, and tried to barter me the same way. He did not succeed, sir knight, as I'd already got something of a reputation for sorcery, and could make myself quite repulsive at need. Warts, deformities, sour breath, teats sagging clear to my waist, and thick, hairy limbs… You can imagine the rest, I'm sure."

"Right. Thanks, ever so."

The picture was horribly clear, and he didn't wish to be further scarred with description. Thankfully, George's hooves required picking for stones and the like, so Gawain had a reason to hide his scarlet face. Frodle (bother the wretched halfling..!) chuckled quietly as he stood brushing Dapple, while Anelle gaped, wordless, nearby. Glud had heard it all before, though, and he soon strode off to wash and change garments. Gawain quite envied the big half-orc. He struggled vainly for a different topic of conversation, but Samara would not be swerved by remarks about her fine bed straw.

"It was looking like that… sick to the teeth of rejecting old, wealthy suitors… that Krall first saw me. He was taken with my charms and decided to kidnap me (no very hard feat, given my father's black mood). Suppose I ought to have been terrified, but Krall was more honest than I was, and willing to accept my un-altered self, once revealed. Mark me, I had power enough to escape. I simply chose not to. Not even when the inevitable flower, stem and leaves of errant knighthood rode forth to 'save' me. Poor dears. Krall and I made a most formidable pair; a witch and great warrior-Uruk of the mountains."

Gawain finished cleaning impacted muck from the inside wall of George's near fore hoof. No stones, thankfully. Last thing he needed, now, was his horse to pull up lame. Setting the limb down and patting it, he straightened again.

"He must've been terribly dear t' you," the knight ventured, simply. "I'm sorry f'r your loss, Dame Samara."

She smiled at him.

"I've great faith in reunions, Sir Gawain, and a firm belief that those who truly belong together will find a way to be joined. Now… if your steeds are satisfied with their lot… perhaps you will come to the actual house?"

"With a right good will," he replied, touching her proffered hand.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Colorado, the Broadmoor Hotel-_

Jeff had no choice but to follow Cleeves right back into that comm-booth. The man was a WorldGov official, after all, and he'd submitted without complaint to a pat-down for weapons and recording devices by Jeff's nervous guards. Cleeves had already been put off once, at a California WASP base, but Jeff couldn't use exhaustion or refugee-status as an excuse to avoid him, this time. Besides, the CEO figured, he had at least ninety pounds, six inches and hundreds of billions of dollars on the guy. What could Cleeves do to _him?_

Nevertheless, not so assured as her employer, Lady Penelope drew forth a small golden cell phone. Almost, her foolishly accustomed fingers tapped John's number onto the key pad. Instead, thinking hard, she rang Interpol, and Congressman Shields.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Midworld-_

The house proper was quite large, with carefully arranged, mirrored light-shafts letting in the air and sun. Moisture, as well, but no one complained of it. Dame Samara's furnishings were few and quite simple. There was a large fire-pit at the room's centre, with a spell-vent hovering just above it to capture the smoke (the other end opened onto her father's bed-chamber, she told them briskly). The cavern walls were lined all about with slow-growing crystals, most hung with scrolls and paintings. Examining one of the former, Frodle brightened suddenly.

"You craft spells?" the halfling enquired, already reaching for his satchel and tome.

Samara nodded, more proud than she wished to let on

"Now and again, when hard cash is required and barter won't answer the need. You might have seen my work here and about, especially if you've purchased any illusion or transformation scrolls, recently."

The scholar pattered over to another of her finished products, one not yet keyed shut and sealed. It was a mist-of-silence scroll, beautifully written and illuminated in vivid, shifting inks. The hand was flowery and masterful, and yes… he _did_ recognize the style. Smiling up at the blonde witch, Frodle said,

"Indeed, Dame Samara, my master will accept no other spells for the college of acolytes. He has said many times that these alone will not backfire. Master Letterlaw will be most gratified to learn that I've met their author!"

Her aspect changed then, for the response of a customer was always helpful.

"Has he any further remarks or suggestions?" she asked eagerly, leading Frodle to a handmade log bench. They were very soon deep in mage-craft discussion, leaving Gawain and Lady Anelle to their own devices, as Glud had not yet emerged and his littermates were out of the den on orcish business of their own.

The centaur colt came limping in after awhile, hobbling awkwardly across the flagstone floor on his three spindly legs. Anelle dropped at once to a log bench and held her arms wide. The colt rushed to her, smiling happily. Just as pleased, Anelle patted and kissed the little creature, whose short brush of a tail switched madly away in response. 'Sweetling' and 'Chester' she called him, among other honeyed names.

_"Chester…?"_ Gawain repeated, trying very hard not to laugh.

Anelle gave him a frosty look, still scratching at the colt's dark, coarse mane.

"Aye, 'Chester'. And just what is wrong with the name I have chosen, pray tell?"

"Well…" Seated beside her on the polished log bench (worn smooth by the rumps of many squirming half-orcs and scarred with their knives) Gawain said, "'Tis not very… _manly, _is it?"

She scowled, worrying the colt, who nuzzled and tugged at her. Anelle relented at once, her green eyes softening.

"There now, dear, it's quite all right. Mummy and Da are having a bit of fun, is all, don't you fear." And then challengingly, to Gawain, "I suppose you can think of a better one?"

He smiled, obscurely warmed by having been linked to her, even if just as the imaginary sire of her adopted 'child'.

"Aye, of course. 'Gawain'… now _there's_ a manly, strong-sounding name for you. Quite noble, as well. Fairly resounds with bold deeds an'… and great love."

Anelle blushed and bit her lip, then hitched herself over the log seat to lean against Gawain's chest.

"Indeed, sir…" she whispered. "If you would speak to me of love, then prove it."

And craning suddenly upward, she kissed him again, softly and well. He forgot everything else for a time, lightly touching her braided dark hair and soft face. Then (for she'd heard all the latest romances chanted by wandering bards… even those she'd had to creep from her chamber and crouch at the banisters for) Anelle attempted a new style of kiss, all the rage at court. Gawain was quite astonished at the swift, shy brush of her tongue, and he pulled away laughing. Took him a bit to get hold of himself, for that sensation had been quite hotly, unnervingly… _wonderful_.

"Right, then…" The poor, flustered knight shifted position on their flattened log seat. "We'd best get you t' Falkirk, Milady, as quickly as possible. 'Tis dangerous, here."

Her small, pointed chin lifted. Determinedly, Anelle said to him,

"I'm not afraid, Gawain. With _you_… never afraid."

She placed a hand upon his face, and he caught it in his own, much larger one. Turning his head, he kissed the lass's palm, his moustache scratching her slightly.

"I know," he whispered against her hand, "and that's why you _must_ be returned. For the sake of Lord Morcar an' your lady mother. Because they may yet still trust me."

Naturally, the defiant lass did not see matters in quite the same way. She was upset with him, and he decided to let her remain so (safer that way). Instead of begging his lady's pardon, the red-haired young knight got up to feign interest in spell scrolls and crystals.

By sunset (to judge by the red, dimming glow creeping in through the light shafts) Voreig hadn't returned, and neither had Drehn. Gawain became restless, for this was the hour he'd usually have withdrawn to pray and prepare spells.

With Samara's leave and a barely returned nod at the Lady Anelle, Gawain left to go wandering. He couldn't pray… not any more. Who would listen? But if not, he could yet tramp through the snow-dusted forest, shiver and think. Eventually, he came to a small, icy spring tumbling out of a ten-foot rocky embankment. Piled on a flat stone nearby were several slightly-pecked rose hips and a handful of parched corn. An offering? Or the wood's answer to dinner? The notion made him hungry. So, looking about at the dark pines and dimming splinters of red sky, Gawain cleared his throat to call aloud,

"If I offend anyone by taking this meal, please say so. I'd not steal what was meant f'r another."

Nothing replied but a soft, hair-mussing wind, so that was all right, then. It seemed that he had a multitude of friends in odd, lonely places, all because he'd once pitied a snapped ash tree. Gawain bent to the spring, then sat down and began eating. He wasn't all that surprised (but terribly relieved, all the same) when the elf appeared, leading Grayling.

"Here," he called to his friend, standing up all at once. "Y'r headed a bit east of th' way, Elf."

Drehn looked at him, and there was something terribly dark and troubled in his violet eyes.

"Gawain," he stated flatly.

"The very same. Come rest f'r a bit and I'll lead you in, after."

He was very glad of his friend's presence, despite all that had passed. The elf appeared to consider, then turned Grayling loose to paw through the snow crust and graze. Coming over to stand before Gawain, he said,

"You won't be followed."

"That's good. Led them quite a chase, did you?"

Drehn nodded… but he seemed more desolate than pleased. No visible wounds on him, and he bore himself erect except for a lowered head. Long, silvery hair blew across the elf's face, hiding it suddenly.

"I guess so. Gawain… I'll stop here awhile, but only 'til Grayling is rested. Then, I've got to leave. It's… very important that I go."

The knight stood there dumbfounded, trying to work out what had happened. He did not get the impression that Drehn _wanted_ to go, any more than Gawain wished to be parted from Lady Anelle… just that the elf felt he'd no other choice.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I don't understand. I mean, of course, if y'r keen t' leave us… By all means do as you please. I've no hold on you, but…"

But after all that had happened, he'd thought they were friends. Drehn looked up at him from behind a masking curtain of ice-pale hair, his face a cold and beautiful, unreadable cipher.

"I have to go," he repeated. "Just keep together and stay the course, Gawain. You're causing a mountain of trouble, below."

Gawain caught at Drehn's arm. Perhaps he comprehended, without really wanting to. There was a bit of the paladin left in him, yet; just enough to bring true-sight and sorrow.

"Listen t' me," he said, feeling something swing faintly open, inside him. "I've no way t' tell what's happened, Elf. I've far less magic than anyone else in th' party, includin' Allat… but whatever 'tis, c'n be dealt with. If you go, we're left without mage or bowman, and our quest is certain t' fail. I'm fairly useless, now, but t' offer suggestions. Accept this one, then, and _stay_. Whatever's troublin' you c'n be got around, somehow."

He felt this quite strongly, and tried through the strength of his grip to communicate his assurance to the desolate elf.

_Damned if he did… damned if he didn't… and everyone dead if he abandoned the quest._

"You're making a mistake, Gawain," said Drehn, very softly. "You've been wrong about me from the start. I'm no damn good and never will be, and by the time you finally realize that, it's going to be too late for us to do anything at all but die together."

The red-haired knight shook his head, shivering slightly from cold wind and colder premonition.

"Nay. I don't b'lieve that," he said angrily.

"What the hell do you know about it?" Drehn snarled, pulling away from his friend's grip. "You're not even a paladin, anymore! I could think… hell… _do_ anything! I could blaspheme your god, drink, steal, whore, kill… _whatever_… and you wouldn't notice a thing, so long as I kept from your sight! Like you said, Gawain, you're worthless, now."

The snowy woods all around them fell utterly silent as Gawain stared at the elf.

"Tryin' t' provoke a fight, are you?" he said, after a bit, hand clenched tight to the hilt of his mended sword. Drehn said nothing, but his posture was tensed and ready, the edge of his cloak folded well away from his short sword. Gawain wouldn't rise to the bait. Wouldn't be forced into killing him.

"Leave if you like, then. I'll do th' best that I can with th' rest… but I still don't believe I was wrong. Be just inside, should you change y'r mind."

And with that, Gawain left him.


	71. 71: Backlash

Kind of short, sorry... Will edit ASA-finished with house work.

**71: Backlash**

_In frantic transit-_

Flying through dusk and then nightfall, Scott, Virgil and the kids turned their backs to Darwin, Australia and raced on home. Scott piloted their hastily-rented aircraft, while Virgil softly and repeatedly used radio, wrist comm and cell phone to call John. Nothing. No answer over the radio but hails originating from a few ships and sea-planes. Meanwhile, the wrist comm produced nothing but loud, wavering static, and all they got over the phone was a bored, pre-recorded_ "Not here, leave a message,"_ brush-off. Effort after effort failed, until Scott, gripping hard at the plane's left steering yoke, muttered,

"Give it a rest, Virge. Maybe he's out of range, or his comm and phone were damaged in the crash." Maybe. Awfully quiet in there, once engine noise and comm-crackle were all that disturbed their long flight. He didn't want to get too involved in the official search effort, lest all the volunteers, Coast Guard and Navy wonder what had become of them, when Thunderbird 2 showed up. Still, it was incredibly hard to listen to all that radio squawk, and not answer; not try to wade in and organize things.

Their jet arrowed through a sky star-pricked on one side, while sullenly sunset-and-ash-lit on the other. Scott held her steady, gnawed by the thought that they might be over-flying a crumpled, drowned plane wreck or a bobbing blond head and desperately waving arm. Tough to hold yourself together, when the missing pilot was one of your own.

For sanity's sake, Scott listed several stern, logical reasons why his brother _had_ to be safe, just in case God was listening; on a break, say, from running the universe. He began with: _The guy's been trained to survive a crash on the __Moon__, for pete's sake… What in the hell could an oversized saltwater __puddle__ throw at him?_

Continued through: _He's been flying since he was 11, took the left seat for the first time at 14, at the crack of dawn on his birthday, with me riding shotgun. They'd almost frozen to death, too; up there in an unheated cockpit, punching holes through a sky as clear and blue as forever. Made it back in time and shape to plead not-very-guilty, though…And to get resoundingly grounded for it, both of them._

Scott ended his list with the most stubborn and important point of all: _He's my __brother__, and…_ (A little insurance, here, just in case) …_Yeah, he still owes me fifty bucks from that waiting room blackjack game_ (John couldn't play for shit, while trying to eavesdrop on a huddle of muttering doctors). Excellent arguments. They'd have held up in court, and Scott hurled every one of them at his own red-clutching panic.

They reached Tracy Island around 2AM, banking for final approach, descent and touchdown without a hitch; smooth as glass. Hackenbacker cleared them to land, but it was Kyrano who stood waiting by the airstrip with an electric cart, ready to drive them all up to the house. Someone was going to have to sit practically on somebody else's lap, though, or else crouch in the luggage compartment; turned out to be TinTin, who hadn't spoken a word since leaving Darwin. They left their bags in the plane. No room.

Most of the way back through that dark, sticky forest, Scott listened to a powerful tradewind skimming the treetops and planned his search-and-rescue effort. It took Virgil's prodding elbow and meaningful nod to draw his attention to their driver's behavior.

Kyrano had been very quiet, shaking their hands and embracing his daughter with a mumbling listlessness that Scott put down to exhaustion and worry. Now, though, the manservant's dark eyes were fixed straight ahead, his hands so tight on the steering wheel that his knuckles seemed about to burst right through the man's bronze skin. Just visible in the diffuse amber glow of their headlights, he hardly seemed conscious of his passengers or the route. He was driving too fast; mouth open and slightly panting.

Scott urged the manservant to slow down, but he didn't seem to hear. The cart barreled onward, bouncing and juddering along the high, switch-backed trail, right for a sharp curve and sudden drop-off. Scott couldn't tell what had first alerted Virgil, but _he_ saw the danger now, too, and he acted.

Just as their overloaded cart veered from the path, Scott reached across Virgil to grab the wheel, while his younger brother pinned and held Kyrano. The cart swerved wildly, scattering gravel and rousing the jungle with its locked-wheel, rattling, and branch-snapping skid.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Colorado, at an earlier hour and time zone-_

The comm-booth doors hissed shut and locked fast, effectively sealing out Penny, confining her to the hotel lobby with Jeff's scowling cordon of guards. The tall CEO did not worry, however, for he was a man entirely comfortable with his preeminent spot in the universe. Already, he'd forgotten the strained nerves of his journey in Scorpion, focusing instead on the minor irritant that was Aldous Cleeves, of WorldGov.

…Or maybe not so minor. Lady Penelope had said they were sniffing and baying after International Rescue, again, and while he had no reason to believe that a worm-pale, bespectacled bureaucrat might have made the connection from Thunderbird rescue craft to Tracy Aerospace, Jeff nevertheless grew wary and watchful.

"Well?" He snapped, sitting rigidly erect at the edge of a padded bench, while Cleeves settled himself on the other. The comm screen flickered with adverts between them, but Jeff ignored it. "What's on your mind, Mr. Cleeves? Be quick, please. I'm a busy man."

The WorldGov official didn't answer immediately. Instead, as though listening to something internal, inaudible, Cleeves looked to one side. That's when the pain struck, so blindingly fierce that Jeff could not see or think. Like his skull had been split and the contents raked out; like he'd lain on a battlefield beneath a broiling sun for hours, tormented by flies and unable to die.

_"Just a few questions, Mr. Tracy,"_ he heard, very distantly. _"Let's begin with that island of yours, shall we?"_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Far off and elsewhen, just checking things out, John decided to enter a crumbling stone building. Just for a quick look around before fixing his comm. After all, you never knew what you might find in a place like that, or how it could help.


	72. 72: Release

Well, I _had_ hoped for short and pithy... but like the story itself, it ran a little long. Sorry about that. Edited.

**72: Release**

_Colorado, the extremely busy Broadmoor Resort-_

Still in his comm booth, Jeff Tracy was confused and torn; stabbed at and slashed by waves of intense, fiery pain. Worse than the agonizing hurt, though, were the constant, insinuating questions. He was jerked from one topic to another, resisting _this_ thread of inquiry only to fall prey to the next.

Then, a loud hammering noise interrupted Cleeves' soft, persistent interrogation. Someone was beating on the comm booth's locked doors. Jeff pulled his gaze away from Aldous Cleeves, and all at once the pain faded to vague, doubtful memory. He was… he felt… Had he said anything? Admitted the truth about International Rescue to a WorldGov official? Jeff couldn't remember, and that in itself shook him deeply.

Lurching to his feet, he keyed open those shuddering doors like a drowning man flailing for a lone, floating timber. The portal hissed open at once, revealing Penelope's anxious face and those of his thronging, plain-clothes body guards. There were three others standing outside the booth, looking quite out of place in the Broadmoor's ornate executive lobby; a middle-aged woman and two intense, well-armed men whose shoulder-holsters bulged almost as noticeably as their biceps. It was the woman who'd been doing all the pounding, to judge by her upraised, reddened fist.

Jeff stepped forward and out of the comm booth, feeling like he'd crawled from his grave. But the woman gave him very little time to gather himself. He registered wavy, silver-shot hair and dark, thinking eyes before she flashed a wallet-badge at him and said,

"Lucinda Myles, field agent, Interpol."

Her voice was firm and professional, but warmed by the soft, poured honey of a southern accent. He'd always been a sucker for that, even in the Air Force. Even at NASA.

"Sorry to interrupt you, gentlemen, but my detachment has been assigned to… shall we say _shepherd_? …This conference safely along. We were making our usual rounds when your lady friend," (She nodded at Penelope.) "…rang us up, Mr. Tracy, indicating that there might have been just a _wee_ little bit of jurisdiction-trampling."

Agent Myles' snapping-dark gaze shifted to Cleeves. She started to say something, or would have done, had her earpiece not begun vibrating. Visibly annoyed, the Interpol agent whispered a word and picked up, her expression changing when she learned who was holding the line to speak with her.

"Yes. Put him on, straightaway. Yes, sir… Thank you, sir. Absolutely… Mm-hmm… Of course. One moment, please…"

Myles switched from earpiece to hand-unit with another word, then turned the phone outward and pressed a button to project in mid-air a larger, virtual screen. On it scowled the handsome face and shadowed eyes of Bill Shields. Impressive, but ghostly, for they could make out the Interpol agent and her hulking subordinates, through his image.

_"'Evening, Jeff… Miss Ward, thank you so much for calling. I hate to be a jackass, here, folks, but I'm afraid I have to pull rank."_

His projected stare shifted to skewer Aldous Cleeves, who smiled very slightly and inclined his head.

_"Mr. Cleeves, WorldGov has no business meddling in __my__ state, at a conference that's likely to result in a new aerospace facility and thousands of jobs. __Especially__ not some nosy weasel of a maritime transport clerk. Buddy, this is goddam Colorado! You see an ocean anywhere? Naw… didn't think so."_

Shields jerked a thumb over one misty shoulder.

_"Pacific's thataway, about four-hundred miles, and you can be there by tomorrow afternoon, if you hurry. Get the picture?"_

The shorter man's eyes seemed to glow, a phenomenon that was echoed, faintly, by Shields.

"Of course, Congressman," Cleeves murmured soothingly, still maintaining that subtle smile. "Why should governments… great powers… argue over nothing? I shall withdraw from your territory at once."

But the smile that he smiled was a cold and triumphant one. Quite clearly, Aldous Cleeves (and that which drove him) had already found what he wanted. If only Jeff remembered what it was...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Midworld-_

Gawain stalked back to Samara's house, using a feebly conjured mage-light to follow his own tracks in the crusted-hard snow. He crossed the yard with its roosting reptile birds, and thence to the cavern, stamping snow and muck from his boots, deliberately not thinking of anything much.

There, as before, were the animal pens. He gave a wide berth to that of the snoring manticore (which sounded like a bubbling flute, and twitched like a cat as it slept), but paused for awhile at the horse pen to scratch George's chin. Both the warhorse and Dapple came to the gate, greeting him with low, snorting nickers.

Another smell than horse and monster impinged on his senses, though. Hesitantly, Gawain ascribed it to supper, and hoped for the best. He parted with George after promising to return for a better, more thorough rub-down. Then, squaring his shoulders, the knight reentered Samara's parlor.

Voreig had returned triumphantly, bringing with him the carcass of some large, spotted beast of dubious origin; like a cow, but with longer hair, branched horns and a few extra limbs. Samara stood over the dead animal, weaving spells of food preparation with Frodle's help and glancing from time to time at the large, stained book which hovered before her.

Gawain would have stopped to watch, had Anelle not risen from her log seat to come claim him, crossing the flagstone floor like a light-skimming leaf. Apparently, he was forgiven. She took both his hands in her own soft, small ones and kissed his cheek, and in her green eyes was a haunted look, as though _she_ was the one who'd done wrong.

"Gawain," she whispered, sensing something amiss, "what has happened? Did… did your prayers go well?"

For, of course, she still considered him not just her knight, but a paladin. Gawain did not respond directly, but leaned into the lass's embrace, taking comfort from straightforward faith and unwavering love. There was no fanciful, court-styled kissing, this time, but Anelle's mere presence was tonic, and he'd be quite sorry to send her off home. Had to, though. No help for it.

"Well enough," the knight said, at last, nearly meaning it.

Across the chamber, Glud waved at him, too busy with Voreig and two other littermates to come nearer. They'd set up a game of queen's men, but weren't so much playing as stealing one another's pieces and threatening a brawl. Pity. Gawain loved the game and rather excelled at it. Beat Morcar quite often, at any rate…

Still holding his lady's hand, the knight wandered across to impose a bit of order and reacquaint Glud with the rules of play (none of which included stabbing the mage piece into Voreig's left ear. Squat Cael pulled it out again, at the same time introducing himself and Torak. Stout lads, if a bit... unrefined.).

Gawain had just got them to properly set up the board when Drehn stole within, quiet as shadows and owls; tired, guilty and heart-sore. Perhaps Gawain ought to have said something… welcomed the elf, or somesuch, but Samara's reaction was too swift and fierce to allow for mere greetings.

She dropped her cleaver and long, slotted spoon; shot bolt upright and cast a sudden, mighty spell on the unresisting drow. Every crystal in the room, including those in her tangled blonde hair, began to glow and thrum. The witch spat words of harsh, shrieking power, forcing something like a dark, oily cloud to stream from Drehn's rigid body.

Her voice rose. Red sparks flared at her fingertips, eyes and the ends of her hair. Great sigils, hidden till now, blazed likewise red from walls, ceiling and floor. The black cloud was drawn away from its host like a lashing and venomous parasite, to hang in midair before him. Samara's eyes were wide and clear as crystals, and her face looked like something carved from adamant stone. With words that caused her sons to huddle and Anelle to bury her face against Gawain… words that drove Frodle to stop up his ears and crouch, while Allat turned himself round, hard and armoured… the witch condensed that dark cloud to a small, sparking gem; black, but with glints of fire inside.

It fell to the floor with a loud, ringing _**thunk**_, and all at once, everything calmed; back to normal, or nearly so. Drehn staggered and would have collapsed, had Glud and Gawain not lunged across to catch and hold him. Had that…? Was _that_ why the elf had seemed…?

Samara began to speak again, eyes closed, in some weird, backward speech of her own invention. Frodle reached up to help steady her, muttering a spell to cleanse the witch from some of that spirit's vile stain. At length, the fit passed and she opened her eyes, which were blue, once again. Frodle, she thanked with a touch and warm smile, likewise reassuring Voreig, Torak and Cael. Then,

"For the sake of my son and his friends, you are freed of compulsion," she said to the elf, "so long as _her_ messenger remains bound. And for so long, again, can she not craft another. I haven't the power to truly dispel or unmake it, though. You must take the binding gem and dispose of it, yourself… but be careful that it doesn't break, and cannot found by another. Go. _Now._ Remove that soul-carrion from my house, drow, and mind you wash well before reentering!"

All at once freed, Drehn nodded thanks and assent before turning to do as she bade him. Glud was there and Gawain, as well. To the one, he owed friendship. To the other an apology at the very least… if he'd even accept it. Glud embraced and pounded him, but the knight it was who (using a bit of cloth) scooped up and handed Drehn the ensorcelled spirit. They exchanged hurried looks, but had little time for words, as the witch was eager to have the thing gone. Gawain would have helped him be rid of it, and Glud as well, but Samara prevented them.

"Stay," she commanded, as the elf took up his burden and left. "In order to be cleansed of this, your friend must willingly cast it away, without support or compulsion. Still… some sort of company might not be amiss. _You,"_ she pointed across the room at Allat. "At once, and inconspicuously. Move."

The shape-changer nodded, slipping forms to that of a quick, bright-eyed ferret. Moments later, pouring under log benches and over the game table, he scampered after Drehn in a long, furry coil of muscle. Allat did not have to go very far before catching the dark elf, who'd come to a halt in the barnyard.

Why, Drehn wondered, should he try to dispose of the bound messenger in Midworld? Surely, if he could fetch food and drink from some strange other realm, why then not send something? Gripped with what seemed like an utterly perfect (and perfectly safe) solution, he stood in the witch's barnyard and reversed his conjuration spell, opening a way along lines that had once brought him ale in gold cylinders and flat, sauce-painted bread. And then, with a single brisk toss, Drehn sent the bound messenger much farther away than anyone realized.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Fletcher's Rock, in mid-Pacific-_

Cautiously, John leaned through the building's ruined door, one hand at the remains of a rusted hinge, the other batting at cobwebs. It was not dark inside, as the roof had fallen in and the windows were nothing more than empty holes, lined with jagged shards of glass. Seemed safe enough, if one hell of a mess.

Stepping across the stone threshold and out of that hothouse wind, John went inside. There was a lot of corroded, moisture-fouled junk lying around amid chunks of dropped roofing, and puffed, sodden carpet with plants growing through. Nice. Also (and this gave him a momentary start), there were bones in there. A pig skeleton, it looked like; brown, gnawed and scattered. So… yeah. What else?

Over toward the building's western edge, where part of the roof slanted downward, he saw a rusty old desk, with what probably had once been a typewriter. Tough to say, now. Gordon had dredged things up off the seafloor with better-defined outlines than that. Something glittered beside the maybe-typewriter, though, attracting him. Valuable?

Curious, stepping very cautiously (for some of these islands had underground fuel depots, and who knew how stable they were, after so many years) John crossed the building for a closer look. _Weird,_ he thought, once he'd skirted moldering junk and fungus-riddled beams to the desk. Everything else in the place was a symphony of rot, collapse and decay. But this… stone or gem… glittered like it lay in a jeweler's window, like something he might have ordered for Penny. Because it _was _a gem, about as big as a ripe cherry. Some kind of… what? Opal, maybe?

It was black, but shot through with color, mostly lances of red. John reached out and picked up the stone, turning it this way and that in the sunlight to watch the colors shift. Pretty.

…And pretty damn strange. Unusually heavy for its size, for one thing, and oddly troublesome for another. Bothered the hell out of him, actually. Like someone had died and murdered and stolen to keep it. Or, maybe just because creepy black jewels in the middle of nowhere were enough to give _anyone_ a severe case of the second thoughts. Brand new rule number one, John decided: _if it doesn't belong there, don't mess with it._

So, he held the opal in one cupped hand for a moment, thinking. If this were a game... D and D, say… what would the others do? Like they were cards, or something, John lined them up in his head. Scott would have laughed at his hunch, and taken the stone, he thought. Virgil might have agreed, though, because the artist sometimes got feelings about situations involving potential disaster. Dad would have had it appraised. Gordon would toss and catch it, making a game out of "bounce the evil gemstone". But Alan would give it to the nearest pretty girl. TinTin, probably. Fermat would certainly prescribe rational study and research, which ordinarily John would have seconded.

…But they weren't here, and weren't him. He decided to throw it away, though he couldn't have said why. Dunno… maybe that cursed-gem storyline Alan had proposed the week before was making him edgy? Who the hell knew? Except that clean, beautiful, obviously expensive jewels had no business here, and that made this one suspicious. Also… damn, it was heavy, and very cold. And it wasn't like he was collecting samples for JPL. Nobody had to know that he'd tossed out a fortune on some stupid, childish whim.

He went outside again. Out to the shore, where the sun scorched, and a powerful, muscular ocean heaved and sucked at a series of terraced rock ledges. Looked like something struggling to breathe; one moment swelling upward, opening the barnacles and bright anemones and whipping-long seaweeds, the next dropping back, exhausted, letting everything lie dank, exposed and quivering… water cascading down again in trickling sheets before the next swell came through. Didn't smell very good, either. Nature… gotta love it.

There were geyser-holes by the shore, formed by the partial collapse and erosion of sea-caves. These jetted great plumes of water every time the ocean surged forward, spouting like the whales in a coloring book.

One of them, though, was quieter, its pipes having been shifted by the earthquake and eruption, maybe. To this one John went, picking a careful path among shells, broken coral slabs and deep tide pools alive with darting small fish. Without ceremony he simply got as near to the dark, open throat as he dared, and then tossed in that weirdly offensive gem.

After all, the Pacific had swallowed up bones and heartache and treasures uncounted; what was one scary jewel, more or less, but an appetizer? At any rate, he dropped the stone in there. It vanished without a sound or a splash, for the hole was a deep one… and already he felt better, less burdened.

Good call, John decided (no matter how senseless his action seemed, on the face of things). Then he turned away and went back to the plane, ready to fix his damn radio and flag down some help.


	73. 73: Adjusting to Darkness

Sort of short, lots going on at home. Thanks, Panoply, ED and Mitzy, for reviewing. Edited.

**73: Adjusting to Darkness**

_Tracy Island, in the dark, on a switch-backed mountain trail leading from airstrip to house-_

On TV, crashes were always these big, noisy things; complete with fireballs, explosions and hurtling wreckage. Not this one. Here in real life, the cart went spinning through a stand of saplings until it hit a big tree and then crumpled up, back end swinging out over darkness. Not much of a _bang_, even. More of a skidding, gravel-scattering _crunch_.

Not that Alan was disappointed, exactly… just that, as usual, life didn't much square with the movies. Anyways, he bruised his arm pretty badly when they hit, even though Gordon had grabbed hold of his shirt like a human seatbelt. Good thing, too, because half of their electric cart (Alan's half) was sort of tilted over a long, dark drop to the swishing treetops, below.

Having changed places with TinTin, he'd been sitting there scrunched in the open "luggage compartment", secured by a few bungee-cords and his brother's anchoring grip. Otherwise, he'd have surely gone sailing.

"Thanks, man," Alan mumbled, just as Scott called out,

"Everyone okay? Gordon…? TinTin…? Alan…?"

The headlights were still on, sort of. One was busted, the other sprung from its base and pointing downward. TinTin began to hyperventilate, gasping and wheezing like a frightened two-year-old. Beside her, Gordon was just a dim silhouette, stiff and sore from his hospital stay, chest and arms swathed in pale bandages.

"Right as rain," he grunted, helping Alan over the back seat and closer to safety. Their cart shifted a little, causing fresh, splintered crackles of wood and strained metal. Not at all what they wanted to hear.

"Okay, listen," said the brisk shadow that was Scott. "We've got an unconscious man and an unstable platform, here, so we're going to have to evacuate carefully, in stages. Virgil first, with Kyrano. Then TinTin, Alan and Gordon, while I provide some counterbalancing weight up front. Understood?"

"Perfectly." Gordon was doing all the talking, which made total sense because…

A) He was older, and…

2. _He_ wasn't perched on TinTin's lap (a position guaranteed to distract any red-blooded surf bum, especially Alan).

But, as their wrecked cart was abandoned, shifting and squealing in its nest of gravel and stabbing-snapped branches, Alan remembered that dream he'd had in the hospital waiting room. The one about Gordon and John.

"You first," he whispered to his older brother, once TinTin squirmed and kicked her way out of the vehicle and into Virgil's arms. "I'm, uh… lighter, so I won't unbalance the cart as much. You're, like, heavier and junk."

Great argument. Too bad Gordon wasn't having any.

"True enough," he said, "and I'm also 'like' stronger. Save me th' trouble of heavin' y'r arse over th' side, then, and bloody _move_!"

Except, Alan could be stubborn, too.

"Nuh-uh. Together, Gordon, or I'll start with my third verse. Best yet. Wanna hear it?"

Without waiting for his brother's reply (in windy, broken-headlight-swinging, shadows-reaching darkness) Alan began to sing,

_"Oh, lord, it's hard to be humble,_

_When you're perfect in ev-er-y waaaaaay…!_

_We loo-oove to look in the mirror,_

_We get better-looking each daaaaaay…!"_

Gordon seized him by the shirt-scruff and belt, jamming Alan past a splintered palisade of broken saplings and deformed metal, thrusting him at Scott. Alan did not kick or struggle, not wanting to upset their cart's tottering balance, but his right hand whipped backward and locked onto Gordon's wrist. A little more wheezily, he continued,

_"To knoooow us is to love us,_

_'Cause Tracys are wonderful guuuuuys…!_

_Oh, lord, it's hard to be humble,_

_But I guess we could… _(Oof!)_ … Give it a try!"_

Sounded like the Mexican hat dance, except very much cooler. Dang, though! Gordon really _was_ heavy... Must've fed him a frickin' banquet in the hospital... But just like during the submarine rescue, Alan hung on. Up and out they were heaved, together; turning just in time to help Virgil haul forth a determinedly squirming (and intentionally deaf) Scott.

Everybody got out, bruised and scratched, but alive. And all of them conscious, except for Kyrano. Peering through restless black shadows, Alan could just see him, a patch of slim darkness stretched out full-length on the gravel path. TinTin huddled beside her father, stroking his face and fighting back tears. Gordon saw, too, and went to her at once, kneeling beside the girl to offer what comfort he could, while Scott and Virgil rigged up a stretcher.

They jerked a couple of long, straight saplings free of the cart's tangled pile, then used their pocket-knives to trim and smooth them, afterward borrowing every available shirt and belt but TinTin's to make up a carrying surface. Besides the cart, there was a bit of illumination from a red key-ring light, but things were still pretty dim, and the brothers cut _themselves_ almost as often as they did the saplings. It wasn't easy, becoming accustomed to darkness.

"How is he?" Virgil squatted down to ask, while Scott summoned Brains on the wrist comm. The big pilot appeared barely in control of himself; muscles taut, eyes narrowed. It took quite a bit of doing to get Virgil Tracy really angry… and Heaven help the jacktard unlucky enough to actually succeed. Or maybe "_unlucky_" wasn't the right word. _Dead_ and _meat_ sprang to Alan's mind as he scooted away from Virgil's tensely-hunched form. But TinTin didn't flinch. Instead, she looked up at Virgil with wide, tragic eyes. And the tears which streaked her pale face were all silvery in the cart's swinging headlight.

"My father is alive," she whispered, "but he does not respond to word or touch. I cannot wake him, Virgil."

Cursing under his breath, the big pilot lurched to his feet and stood swaying there a minute, staring down at TinTin, her father and his own younger brothers; all of them bruised and weary. In danger again, thanks to the Hood.

"We're going to finish this," he promised, speaking to his family, friends and the darkness. But most of all, addressing a coward who struck like a snake through helpless others. A coward who had to be put away, and quickly.

About the same time, (thanks to less ash and more satellite) Scott got a few extra bars and a phone call from Cindy Taylor. He didn't seem all that happy about it, though.

"What…?" the fighter pilot demanded, sounding just as exasperated as he was concerned. "No, I don't think that's a very good… _No!_ Listen a minute… just hold on a second, Hon… you're not using your head, here. I…"

But Cindy wouldn't back down (bull-terrier that she was) and Scott simply ran out of arguments.

"Fine," he sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. "You're going to do what you want, anyway... Just take your time getting out here, and make sure the pilot flies safe and smart. See you in a day or two, Hon."

Alan shook his head sympathetically, because chicks were sure tough to figure out, sometimes. He glanced over at TinTin, leaning stone-faced and tear-streaked against Gordon's bandaged chest, all but hiding his Olympic-rings tattoo. Like, sometimes, chicks were all _"Hey, there, baby!"_ Then, next thing you knew, it was, like, _"Take off, loser. I didn't mean it!"_

Seriously, how were you supposed to guess what they wanted _this_ time? Or _who?_ After all, there she was, hugging on Gordon like the swimmer was her favorite teddy bear or something, when she'd been reaching for Alan at the hospital _and_ kept a fuzzy, heart-bordered image of Virgil in her digital picture frame. Dude! What the fudge?

His speculations were cut short when Scott rang off, took a wrist comm message, and then strode over, gravel crunching underfoot with each rapid step.

"Brains and Fermat are on their way," Scott announced, pocketing the phone, "...and Grandma's getting the infirmary ready. But, If Kyrano's got no obvious head or spinal trauma, we'd better load him up and head for the house, because I don't like the sound of that wind. Feels like another storm coming on. Virge…?"

"Right here, Scott," his brother replied, eager for something to do besides pace and mumble.

Unspoken was the thought that… alone and battered in the jungle, like this… they'd be easy prey for the Hood. A rising wind hissed through the tree-tops overhead, causing branches to creak and a hail of small, ash-tainted fruits to drop. Not that anyone felt much breeze on the smothering jungle floor. Too far down. They heard it, though, and they worried.

With help from Gordon and Alan, the two older brothers maneuvered Kyrano onto his makeshift stretcher. Then, each taking a pair of sticky, splintering handles, they hoisted man and stretcher clear of the graveled path.

"One… two… and… _up!_ Easy does it, Virge… keep him level." (For the stretcher had dipped, somewhat.)

"Yeah… Got it, Scott. Head on out, and I'll follow you."

His oldest brother couldn't see him, facing forward and gripping the wooden handles, as he was. All Scott could do was sense changes in the tilt and direction of his load. That, and bark orders.

"Let's go, you three," the fighter pilot called over his shoulder to Gordon, Alan and TinTin. "We need to make what headway we can, to save time. Stay together, but watch your step. TinTin, take the light, please."

Their way was not steep, but even a relatively gentle path could be treacherous in the dark. They'd not one flashlight between them, except for that joke of a red LED tag on Scott's key-ring. TinTin held it forth to light the stretcher-bearers' way, walking slowly along beside them. Alan would have followed, but Gordon hissed at him to wait a moment. Much like Virgil, retreat was the _last_ thing he wanted.

"Alan," he whispered, seizing his shirtless brother's arm. "I've a notion t' try somethin'. Bit dicey, perhaps, but likely at least t' peg a location f'r John. At most…" Gordon shrugged, making just the barest silhouette-hint of motion. "…we might succeed in drivin' th' Hood off f'r a bit. Well? Care t' give it a go?"

Like there was a question? Alan was not about to let Gordon outshine him in raw courage. Nor (after that terrible dream) was he going to just leave the swimmer alone. As Virgil was fond of repeating, Gordon drew trouble like a half-empty Coke can lured wasps. _Somebody'd_ better be standing nearby with a big can of Raid, y'know?

"I'm in. What's the plan?" he whispered back, as they fell behind Scott, Virgil, TinTin and her unconscious dad.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In Colorado, meanwhile, a seemingly-beaten WorldGov official went humbly on his way, and an apparently friendly congressman spoke somewhat longer with Jeff Tracy. Nice guy, Bill Shields. Very concerned.


	74. 74: Open Heart

Thanks, ED and Panoply, for your recent reviews and comments.

**74: Open Heart**

_Tracy Island, toiling up a dark and winding path toward the mansion- _

Gordon hurried to describe the crux of his plan to Alan, in many short, muttered bursts. Not easy, because the wind really _was_ rising (they were in for a wild night) and because Virgil, their brother, had very sharp ears.

"What I've realized is… he prefers t' strike when his victim's alone, doesn't he?"

Alan nodded cautiously as they scuffed their way over ash-crusted gravel in the wake of the stretcher, following TinTin's bobbing red light. The notion made sense, for obvious reasons.

"Yeah… 'Cause I guess someone else could interrupt, if they saw what he was doing in time to, like, barge in and stop him."

"Right. Isolation would be condition one, then. Secondly, it seems that he finds th' way easiest if his victim's been… upset, as it were." Such as by having attempted to place an arm about the waist of a beautiful lass, and then been figuratively shown to the door. The memory still hurt.

Alan was a stumbling shadow amid chaotic, branch-rubbing and stone-clattering blackness. His second vigorous nod was just visible against TinTin's receding red glow.

"Sure. He likes 'em alone and torn up. That's the bait. What're we supposed to do if we lure him, though? Wave hello? Use a Ghost-Buster spirit vac on him?"

Gordon hesitated. Though he hated to admit it, this was an alarmingly weak point in the swimmer's thin scheme. Best project confidence, then. Seizing Alan's arm to halt him, Gordon whispered,

"I've some painkillers left from my stay at th' hospital, Alan, and I'm thinkin' that if _I_ were a bit drugged, _his_ reactions might be off, as well, from tryin' t' see and act _through_ me. Suppose I wander off, after arrangin' myself a bit of upset, take a Doloxene, wait f'r him to attack me, an' then signal you? Perhaps I might hold him in place, somehow, while you ask after John's condition and whereabouts."

Alan didn't respond immediately. Really, _seriously_, he was trying to think. What would Scott say about all this? Or John?

"You think you can trap the Hood in your head while I, y'know… ask him questions and junk? And he'll answer because of the painkillers? Like we used truth-serum, or something?" the younger boy summarized, turning the idea over and over in his sleepy, deeply-stressed mind.

"More or less correct. Can't think of a better plan, at th' moment, anyhow… and we must do _somethin'._ There are other benefits, besides; because if we _did_ succeed at pinnin' and questionin' the Hood, he might well think twice about comin' back. Make sense?"

"Maybe. Kinda dangerous, though, isn't it?" Alan objected. He was speaking to blackness, now, as the others had rounded a sharp upward bend in the trail, leaving the brothers behind.

"Worse than sittin' about th' house waitin' f'r _him_ t' make th' first move?" Gordon responded impatiently.

Alan gnawed at his lower lip, trying very hard to spot problems.

"You might need more help than just me," the boy suggested. Up ahead, from the sound of things (and the sight of twin, bouncing headlights) Brains had arrived with Fermat and a second cart. "Mind if I bring, like, Virgil or somebody? Once I get your signal, I mean?"

"Brilliant. Please do," Gordon told him. Although his memory of what had happened at Nightcliff was spotty, the athlete felt certain he'd been urged to harm someone. Virgil was insurance. He would surely prevent Gordon from turning on his own family, no matter what mischief the Hood prompted.

_"Alan! Gordon!"_ Scott's voice snapped like a whip over their wrist comms; peremptory and nervous. _"Where are you?"_

"No worries, Scott. We're comin' right along behind," Gordon assured him, taking about a thousand pounds and ten years off the worried fighter pilot. Scott managed to smile a little when they caught up to him, obviously relieved.

"Don't do that again," he grumbled, as Brains began turning the cart. "From now on, you two stay with the rest of the group; no ifs, ands or butts, except _yours_, in formation."

Once Hackenbacker had his vehicle reoriented, a grunting Scott helped Virgil to hoist Kyrano's stretcher up and aboard. Fermat had already hopped off and rushed to his friends, exclaiming over Gordon's bandaged chest and upper arms. Although the scars were covered at the moment, he'd clearly been terribly and extensively stung.

"Ow! Th-that had… to h-hurt! I'm glad you… made it, Gordon. We were… pretty w- worried." The young genius glanced anxiously from one friend to the other; in his rumpled white shirt, dark pants and glasses, seeming almost a clone of his father, Dr. Hiram Hackenbacker. "Is e- everything okay?"

"Are you kidding?" Alan scoffed, "around here, we eat car crashes and hospital stays for lunch! Give us a few minutes to rest up, dude, and then we'll nail the Hood _plus_ rescue John from that tribe of adoring island-girls who just made him their king."

Gordon and Fermat stared at him, so Alan grinned a little and shrugged.

"See, that's what _I'd_ want to have happen, whenever I ditched in the Pacific. They'd be hotties, too; all of them wearing grass skirts, flowers and great, big welcoming smiles. And I'd totally amaze them with my, like, godly wrist-comm spirit communicating powers. You guys could visit, though. Maybe. Once in awhile."

"Naturally. Movin' right along…"

Gordon and TinTin ended up riding to the house with Brains and Kyrano, who had yet to regain consciousness. The engineer had a lot on his mind, what with taking care of a sudden new patient (two, if you counted Gordon) and working out the location of his missing friend (who probably was _not_ being fed grapes and worshipped by love-starved females, at this point). Needless to say, Hackenbacker was pretty quiet on their way up the mountainside, merely instructing TinTin and Gordon to buckle in tight.

The others… Alan, Virgil, Scott and Fermat… would just have to walk, though Brains had left them with water bottles and a trio of bright, sturdy torches. Several things happened at the house once Kyrano was seen to. Gordon and TinTin were greeted and embraced by Grandma and Gennine. Quickly, though, as there was much to do and worries aplenty.

In the kitchen, Gennine hung a crystal around Gordon's neck; something called watermelon tourmaline which she claimed would shield him from "negative influences". TinTin got one, too. The girl was hard-pressed to be polite, so desperately did she wish to rush back to her father. Gordon said thank you, though, accepting a great deal of well-meant, perfectly daft advice with a serious face and an open heart. He _did_ very much like Alan's mum, whose misty-blonde prettiness and peculiar attitudes were highly diverting.

"…and whatever you do, keep away from north-facing windows and doors. North is the direction most likely to yield trouble, sorrow and bad luck. Try to face east as often as possibly, sweetie. Okay?"

"I'll do m' best t' remember that," Gordon promised, allowing Gennine to fuss at his bandages and adjust the set of his new ward-crystal. "Thank you very much, ma'am."

Grandmother Tracy's comfort consisted mostly of tinned food and exasperated nagging. Of…

"What the _hell_ was you doin', swimmin' in the ocean at night, anyhow? You lost your mind or somethin', boy? No, don't answer that! Just shut up and eat. I ain't fixed all this food for nothin'!"

She was concerned though, and he knew it. So Gordon interrupted the frail old woman's stove-to-tabletop banging and bustling to give her a much-needed hug. In his arms she felt bird-fragile and terribly small; all sharp words and brittle angles wrapped 'round a core of desperate fear.

"He'll be all right, grandmother," the red-head told her, adding quietly, "John has a way of survivin' th' worst, an' then scoffin' at th' rest of us f'r takin' on about nothin'. You'll see."

The old woman relaxed momentarily, but not too much. Not for anything would she have broken down in front of her grandson. She pulled away after a short, sighing moment.

"I ain't worried," insisted Victoria Tracy, blinking up at Gordon with moist brown eyes. "I done said my rosaries and lit my damn candles. All the rest is up to God."

Dressed in long, red-velveteen skirts and an oversized Hawaiian shirt, with two silver plaits hanging halfway down her back, Victoria seemed the very picture of motherly love and determination. The sort of person who'd cook an enormous meal, blast an intruder or bandage up wounds with equal skill and intensity.

"Eat your fry-bread," she told him, pushing Gordon toward the kitchen table. "T' ain't half so good once it's cooled."

The young Olympian did as he was told, wolfing down coffee, fried bread, tinned beans and mixed fruit with far more appetite than TinTin, who was yet rather stunned. Afterward, Gordon excused himself from the table to first welcome the newly arrived others, and then escort TinTin back to the infirmary.

It was a short walk and a quiet one, but with grandmother busily force-feeding Scott, Virgil and Alan, Gordon wouldn't likely get a better chance. Accordingly, he halted TinTin in mid-corridor, by the simple expedient of a hand to her arm. Knowing nothing of his plans, the beautiful young lass gazed at him, curiosity peeking past the ragged edges of her pain and concern.

Gordon's wrist-comm was already set to Alan, while the vial of painkilling Doloxene tablets rattled faintly in his left-hand pants pocket. All he need do was re-enact the events that had troubled him last time; inviting another swift, cold rejection from TinTin. Of course, she owned his heart. How could she not know that? Wanting it, though… that was another matter, entirely.

So, Gordon did something terribly risky. There in the passage from living quarters to lab and infirmary, he drew TinTin close and he kissed her. Not as a friend would, but a lover. One confident that his feelings were caught and returned. He'd learnt quite a bit at the Olympic Village in Portland, with more picked up in Sheffield, from Royce's randy, exuberant cousins. And Gordon unpacked it all, now. Holding her tightly against him, caressing the lass as he gently, insistently kissed her, the young man quickly forgot that this was only part of a plan. He forgot everything in the world but pounding heart, rushing blood and the soft-trembling lass who almost, very nearly, began to kiss back.

Almost… but not quite. TinTin had shielded herself, you see; defending her mind against the Hood for many long hours. She guessed nothing of Gordon's plot. Thought only that her dearest friend and true heart sought to comfort and win her. Perhaps he'd have even succeeded. But then, as Alan had done, TinTin all at once perceived something terrible. That Gordon, strong, warm and gallant, was doomed by his own stubborn courage. That, one day, compassion and boldness would lead to his death, leaving TinTin with nothing at all but memory, dust and old pictures. Clearly, she saw this, and thrust him away with a soft, anguished cry.

He'd expected it, and still her reaction tore at him. How was it possible to love someone so completely, when they cared not at all in return? Not beyond friendship, at any rate.

"Terribly sorry," he managed after a bit, looking away. "You c'n find th' infirmary on y'r own from here, I'm sure. I've… um… somethin' else t' see to, just now."

"Gordon…" TinTin whispered, wishing that she felt differently, or knew less. Her hand reached partway toward him, and then faltered. What was there to say, after all, when she could not, ever, give him what he most wanted?

He took her small hand, kissed it once, and then dropped it, again. Didn't say anything further, though; just gave TinTin Kyrano a quick nod and then turned to leave her, both of them quite torn to pieces.


	75. 75: Transition

This one's longer. Edited. Just going to the beach first, to see what waves Fay hath wrought. Thanks, ED, Panoply, Mitzy and Tikatu, for your reviews. Please don't think too badly of Gordon. It isn't entirely his fault.

**75: Transition**

The demon's servant was bound, but not destroyed, giving her influence within this non-magicked realm, if not direct power. Her actions, perforce, were subtle; a sense of deep anguish here, confusion there. And… hatched in the mind of one young mortal shadow… a truly hazardous plan. In this place, the tools of her Enemy cast twisted reflections, and one in particular was plunging headlong into disaster. No, the Queen of the Lost could not strike at him directly… but she could certainly place his feet on that long, downward path.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Colorado, the exquisite Broadmoor Hotel-_

They'd passed well beyond _late_ and stumbled, blinking and yawning, into horribly early. Jeff Tracy couldn't remember the date, and forgot to consult the calendar function on his elegant wrist comm, he was so very confused. Sharp and twitchy as a purebred cat, Lady Penelope came to stand at Jeff's side, one hand on his well-muscled arm. Beautiful woman, good friend; one in a million, if that common.

The Interpol team had split up, two of the muscular agents escorting a very meek Cleeves to the hotel's main lobby, while Myles and one other remained with Jeff. He was too fuzzy at the moment to wonder why. Surrounded by soft, splintered chandelier-glow, warm scents and tinkling music, the CEO felt numb and slow as a drifting iceberg, and about as maneuverable.

Shields' image still flickered insubstantially before them, as the congressman first watched Cleeves' departure and then resumed talking.

_"They sure do pick their moments, don't they, Jeff? Almost as bad as the damn press, swear to God! But, hey, I'm real sorry to hear about your son… Scott, isn't it?"_

"John," the stunned executive managed, after pawing through the gutted remains of his recent memory. Gone down in the Pacific somewhere, hadn't he? Somewhere between Darwin and Kanaho?

_"That's right… the astronaut. Nice looking young fellow, and a real credit to you, Jeff. I'm sure he'll be fine… just like your other boy, Gordon."_

Shields smiled a little, but the expression never quite climbed to his deep-set grey eyes.

"_It's crap like this makes me grateful to have just the one daughter, I tell you."_

"How's Claire?" Jeff asked automatically, wishing that he dared to sit down, or just fall. Every part of his body hurt, as though he'd received a massive electric shock in that comm booth.

"_Fine, just fine, and still talking about your boy's… how'd Clairie put it? Incredibly persuasive charms. Sell ice to Eskimos and sand to the Arabs, apparently. Or swimming at night to a bunch of young girls."_

Bill's expression shifted, then, taking on the aspect of one who has a subtle advantage, and knows it.

"_Listen, though… since I got you here, Jeff, how 'bout coming over to the house for dinner, tomorrow evening? We could discuss the future of Tracy Aerospace in my beautiful district. Friend of a friend tells me you're thinking about opening_ _up a new testing facility here in the west, that right? And I happen to know that a couple of WorldGov aircraft contracts are about to run out… plus the Air Force needs a new orbital docking station. Bet they'd refocus a few more surveillance satellites on the Pacific for an old friend and sparring partner like Jeff Tracy, especially if __I__ drop a word or two in the right ear."_

Agent Myles shifted restlessly. She was here to ensure that the high-level negotiations between Tracy Aerospace and the state of Colorado went undisturbed by pressure and influence-peddling. But had Shields just attempted to strong-arm the weary CEO? Was he offering to help boost the search for Jeff's missing son in return for a better-padded deal? The agent cleared her throat and stepped forward, trying to make the action seem natural, rather than tense.

"Gentlemen," she suggested sweetly, pouring on the accent and warm smile, "I don't know about y'all two, but it sure seems late to be talkin' so long and hard about business. Seems to me like even a pair of go-getters like Jeff Tracy and Bill Shields might could use a little sleep."

With her dark hair and brown eyes, her bold jacket and flowered dress, Lou Myles was very much candy-coating and solid center; something like a powder-pink Taser gun. Automatically sensing an ally, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward chimed in to join her, saying,

"Indeed, yes! Beastly uncivilised hour to even _consider_ such things." Sighing, she glanced for support at Agent Myles and added, "_Men._ Dreadfully fixated at times, are they not?"

Lou caught her pitch with a barely discernible nod.

"Can't live with 'em, can't pack 'em off to Mars, I swear."

And then, as Penny began drawing Jeff in the general direction of Broadmoor's Presidential Suite, Myles feigned a tiny little yawn. Shields got the picture.

"_Looks like we've been politely ordered to put it all on the back burner, Jeff. Tomorrow night, then? Around seven o'clock, my place? Don't worry about directions; I'll send a car for you and the lovely lady, by six-fifteen. We've got a lot to talk about, buddy."_

…Just as Congressman Shields had a great number of calls to make. Jeff nodded woodenly, allowing Penny and the security guards to steer and propel him.

"Sure thing, Bill. Tomorrow."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Midworld, in the den of a widowed orc-wife-_

All things considered, supper went well. Besides the roast beast, Samara served stewed winter vegetables with lumps of glistening fat, dark bread, strong cheese, tea, ale and a honeyed red compote of quince and persimmon. The food was plentiful, if not particularly fine, and the manners about what you'd expect from a witch and her half-orc brood. Gawain had seen worse in the feasting halls of many a southern lordling.

He shared a platter with Anelle, using his belt knife to slice meat and cheese for her, so that she need not stain her delicate fingers or sleeves. Truthfully, though, the young noblewoman was more curious than hungry. She ate little; watched and listened much, leaning close against Gawain the entire time.

Frodle sat beside Samara, listening and occasionally interjecting as she discussed her craft. Unable to help himself, the halfling summoned his tome midway through supper and began taking notes. Here was a dragon's horde of new and undreamt-of lore, and Frodle was determined to record it all for the distant Temple of Knowledge.

A bit further down-table, Glud had consumed enough food to supply a lord's war-band, and was now arm-wrestling Voreig, his brother. Perfectly harmless, except that the hunter had grunted a general challenge… and his dark eyes kept drifting from Glud's tense, straining face to Gawain. The brothers' antics knocked over an earthen tea jug and squashed several round loaves of coarse bread.

Allat remained in dark-masked, mischievous ferret form, which shape allowed him to steal from this platter and that, invisibly swift. Lifted a few purses, too, for the fun and practice, though he later put them right back (Gawain's doing).

The elf alone seemed ill at ease, a sliver of shadow amid all of that noise, feeding and boisterous movement. The messenger had left him, but he still couldn't speak of its mission. Instead, Drehn picked at his meal with a slim dagger, absorbed in silence and thought.

After supper, when the table was cleared, the floor spell-cleansed, and Glud had bested Voreig, two falls out of three, their hostess called the party to council. Frodle had one way with the future, as she declared,

"…and I have mine. If I've earned your trust, Sir Knight… good Scholar… if you'd deign to reveal your plans to a mere orc-wife, I'll give what advice I can."

Gawain was spokesman for the party (or had been) but the red-haired young man did not make his decisions alone. Handing Anelle a bit of squashed bread for her centaur colt, he looked to Frodle, who pursed his lips consideringly, and then nodded.

"Dame Samara," Gawain replied, "You've earned trust an' service, alike. I've not much money, just now, but…"

"This might do," Drehn cut in, a bit stiffly. From his left belt pouch, the elf drew several gold dragon scales; harder than steel, brighter than dwarf-forged treasure, souvenir of their fight on the sky road.

Samara's blonde eyebrows lifted nearly into her snarled hairline.

"Those… would be a valuable return, indeed. Are you sure that you wish to part with them, elf? Dragon scales, especially golden ones, are rare and powerful items. You might make magickal ink, or a bow-guard."

Drehn shrugged listlessly; his silvery hair and few ornaments glinting in the warm light of fire and wall-crystal.

"I wasn't doing anything with them," he said to the witch, whose hand had begun to drift across the table toward those stacked and glimmering scales. "But if your conscience bothers you too much, give one to Frodle. He more than deserves it."

Typically, Drehn had found a left-handed way to say thank you, all the while belittling his own apparent generosity. Samara accepted, claiming three golden scales, while the halfling received one whole, and part of a shattered other. Then, the very-pleased witch turned to Frodle's tome and examined the vision recorded there.

"Hmm… 'Forge anew, Good Sir Knight, for Crown and Kingdom, alike…' Spoken by an air sprite which held up five gems, in the ancient language of Faerie."

She scowled, gazing long at the sigils inscribed on the tome's vellum pages. The witch was on her feet, now, leaning over the book beside Frodle, who stood at the end of a log bench, as nervous as though his own master was examining the record. Samara tapped a fingernail against the sixth sigil, which emitted a crystalline chime.

"Crown," she murmured, "could here be interpreted as 'link' or 'bridge', because in times past, mortal kings were bound by a token to Faerie, after swearing their fealty to Oberon at the crest of the sky road."

"Or to his father," Gawain suggested, for such ceremonies hadn't been performed in many generations of men. But Samara shook her blonde head.

"Oberon is a place, not a person, Sir Knight. And the token _might_ be a crown, or something else. Folk tend to forget things like that, after nearly a hundred years of darkness and silence. But not…" She glanced meaningfully over at Drehn, "…one would think, a semi-immortal. The memory of a drow would be clearer, wouldn't it?"

The elf shifted position just a little; face blank, eyes down. Reluctantly, he said,

"I am not old for my kind, witch, and what history I learned was very much distorted."

"Outright lies, most of it," Frodle supplied, anxious to support his wary companion. "Given the source… and their feelings about the upper realms… nothing much that the elf was taught would be useful, I think."

Samara shot the well-meaning halfling a swift, quelling look.

"There is information to be got from the shadows and negative spaces as well, young scholar. Looking only at light, one quickly goes blind." Turning once more to the restless elf, she said,

"Speak, drow. What do you know of Faerie's trouble, and the lost crown?"

Clearly uncomfortable at the centre of all this attention, Drehn gave her another blank shrug and began toying with an earthenware cup.

"Men don't talk much, in the caverns. They hold their tongues, or they lose them. My father said little to me before his death, and my mother was… She came from a different land, through treaty and trade. She whispered of other things and far places, never the ancient past. When my choosing happened, a certain priestess took me aside and spoke to me, revealing what I needed to learn. I suppose I believed it at the time, because the caverns were all that I knew."

Like he knew the taste of horseflesh, the weeping of slaves and the exact, icy texture of darkness. Everyone was staring at him, making words hard to take hold of and shape. Glud reached over to pour a bit more ale into the elf's cup, brushing his arm slightly, in the process. Drehn accepted the bitter drink with a nod, and continued.

"Anyhow… what I learned was that the scouts and chariots of Faerie struck at the very beginning of time, driving all those who resisted them into hiding, or slaughtering them in unequal battle. They placed puppet rulers on the thrones of human-, elf-, and dwermer-kind, linked to their realm with various heirlooms designed to be handed down only to those of close blood. By… you would say treachery, but the priestess called it cleverness… by ruse and violence and sheer stupidity, one token after another was lost, or fell silent. She called the last a crown, claiming that it gave its wearer access to the will and attention of Faerie. She said that it was stolen and destroyed, but not by one of _our_ kindred."

"The drow may have profited from this darkness," Samara commented, "but they did not create it. The true source is demonic."

Her gaze moved back to Gawain.

"You've taken on hell, itself. You know that, don't you?"

He nodded. In a low voice, the knight replied,

"That I do. Been made very clear t' me, it has, through one means an' another."

Said the witch,

"You do this stripped of Heaven's favor, with only a man's strength and a few imps, sprites and nymphs to assist you?"

An outraged ferret popped out from under the table, where he'd been sorting and hiding away valuables. In Allat's impatient voice, the close-furred creature snapped,

"And _us!_ Sir Not-so-Holy-Anymore may be a deluded idiot, but he's got friends, you know!"

Samara laughed at him, flicking Allat's pink-padded, sharp-clawed paws from the table.

"Well, that's it, then. Your success is all but assured, Sir Gawain."

The tone was sarcastic, but her smile rather indulgent. Reaching into a velvety pouch which till now had hung unnoticed at her waist, the witch murmured words that slipped sideways, un-gripped and un-translated. Then she clutched what seemed to be a handful of smooth stones, drew them forth and flung them upon the table top.

The grey stones clattered and bounced against scarred, carven wood for an unusually long time. When they settled at last, five were face-up, their odd sigils clearly visible, but two lay face-downward, a little apart from the rest. Samara began pointing to each of the revealed oracles, speaking for each one a word.

"Struggle… Alliance… Hidden Things… Sorrow… and Conquest. These lie before and within you, Sir Knight. Now," The witch peered up at Gawain, the crystals bound in her long yellow hair clicking and rattling together. "There lie here two linked fates, only one of which may be revealed. Doing so will immediately alter the other, whose original message can never be known. Choose, Sir Knight. Which shall I turn for you?"

That was a heavy decision to lay upon so young and bereft a warrior. Before, he'd have gone off to spend time in solitude and prayer, first. But again, who would listen?

Gawain looked at Anelle, whose gift of a hand-sewn tunic had blocked the fiery lash of a demon. He loved her, and so trusted that love was enough.

"Which one?" the knight asked his lady, who bit her lip, thought for awhile, and then pointed at the right-most, less sharp-cornered pebble.

"Turn that one, good witch. It seems somehow friendlier."

Samara's expression softened.

"For your sake, child, I hope that it is," she said. Then, putting forth a ringed hand, the witch flipped over the chosen oracle.

"A difficult journey," she translated its markings. "Unavoidable, but not without hope."

Anelle deflated, sagging against Gawain like a limp, pretty doll. She looked at him anxiously, as though to ask _'Did I do well?'_ He answered with a kiss. The other stone went utterly blank, changed by the journey to come.

That night, Gawain and Anelle slept in the same room upon a single bed, with his sword laid between them. They kissed once and held hands across it, but nothing more (besides whispered talk and soft touches). The colt lay at the foot of their bed, legs folded, child-body leaning upon a long pillow, as happy and healed in spirit as though he were back with his vanished herd.

In the morning (did night _ever_ last long enough, when one was deeply in love?) after tea and bread scraped with cheese that had been set to warm by the fire, Gawain got the elf to cast a transport spell, and he took Anelle home.

The spell's other end was opened at once, almost slashed apart, in fact, by Lord Morcar, himself. Gawain stepped through with Anelle and the shy, three-legged colt, to find himself in His Lordship's great stone hall, surrounded by two-score grim knights and men-at-arms. Morcar snarled something unintelligible and leapt from his high seat, drawing the sword from his scabbard in one long, hissing swish. He strode forward like a man possessed, black and insensible with wrath. But flame-haired Lady Kait was present, as well.

"Morcar," she pled softly, reaching out as he passed her, to catch at his cloak, "I beg you…"

The nobleman jerked loose of her grasp and strode on, shoving men from his path like a maddened bull. Anelle would have interposed herself between on-rushing lord and waiting, disgraced knight, had Gawain not seized the lass and put her behind him, almost hurling Anelle into the arms of a dark-haired young bowman. Then, rather than drawing his own weapon, Gawain dropped to one knee.

He was unarmoured and scarcely armed, with just a sheathed sword and belt knife, his tunic, breeches, boots and cloak before Morcar's bared blade and bright mail. Someone else came forward, then, halting in position to catch the furious nobleman's notice. With some surprise, Gawain recognized his older brother, Pier, who was unarmed and unspeaking. The rest was a lot of confused bits and images; pale light slanting in through high, narrow windows, tapestries hanging dark and smoke-cured against the grey stone, clinking mail, creaking leather, the braying colt limping after Anelle, who'd run to her mother, crying wildly that all was well, that nothing and no one had harmed her.

Then the point of Morcar's blade jabbed at the flesh of Gawain's throat.

_"Speak, Sirrah!" _he roared. _"What have you done t' my daughter?"_

Quite levelly, despite the hot trickle of blood that began to snake from the sword point, down his neck and onto his tunic, Gawain responded,

"Nothing, Milord. Anelle was bespelled t' my location by another. I was with several companions at th' time, beset and in flight from attack. I could not return her t' you at once, but did so as soon as there was peace and safety enough t' allow a deep breath. Upon my oath, lord, y'r daughter is yet a maid."

The sword's pressure did not ease. Nor did it build, though. Shifting his gaze very slightly, Morcar looked at Anelle and Kait, who'd both started forward.

"Well?" he snapped at his wide-eyed chattels, "the truth, if you please, before I have off his head!"

In a gently placating voice, reaching out with both hands to touch and caress Morcar's quivering sword-arm, Kait said,

"My lord, Anelle is returned to us safe by one who, thank Heaven, is a true and good friend. I know my child, Morcar. I know her eyes and her heart, and she remains innocent of aught but kisses and dreaming. My lord, upon my own head be it, if I am deceived, but let us not return evil for good. Behold, here is Gawain, your own squire... my darling page. He has done nothing wrong."

The tall nobleman, well-muscled and scarcely touched with grey, despite his age, flicked a glance at his daughter. Then he stared all the harder at Gawain.

"You take oath?" he demanded, not shifting the sword's acid-sharp point.

"Aye, lord," Gawain responded. "On whatever you care t' name, exceptin' my former brotherhood."

Morcar snorted rudely and withdrew the blade. Re-sheathing it, he said,

"A lot of incense-and-mumbling rot, in any case. I'd mistrust _any_ oath taken upon th' name of those wandering, gutless…"

Gawain stiffened. Still on one knee, as he hadn't been given leave to rise, the young man protested,

"It was no coward's deed t' reject me, Milord. I did wrong, and was justly punished f'r it. Tis my own fault, not theirs, that I am outcast and nameless."

Once again, unexpectedly, Morcar lost control of his volatile temper.

"Damn it, sir! When once I've made a knight, knighted he remains! Leave off this foolishness and rise, Sir Gawain, in _my_ service, if y'r thrice-blasted temple will have none of you!"

Morcar's words rang through the hall like a series of whip-cracks. He extended both hands downward in a certain way, inviting fealty, and the great hall became all at once silent. Even the whimpering colt quieted, shushed by his trembling 'mum'.

Gawain hesitated for what felt to him like a long, aching ever. He could feel Pier's eyes boring holes in the back of his neck; sensed Anelle's pleading gaze, and the pent breath and bitten lip of Lady Kait. Young Gareth, Morcar's stripling son, hurried eagerly forward, already seeing himself a squire to the re-made knight… if such he was to be.

Where lay the right path, in all this? Abandoned, himself, did it _matter_ if Gawain turned away from those who refused even to speak his name? Shelter was offered, and a chance at honour. Should he accept them, or proceed alone and masterless?

Anelle moved a bit. _'Please?'_ she mouthed, embracing her crippled small colt. Thus pressured, Gawain decided.

Placing his hands flat together as though in prayer, he raised them between Morcar's outstretched ones. The dark-haired lord clasped big, battle-scarred hands upon Gawain's, and then led him through a brisk oath of fealty; clear-voiced and strong, the pair of them. Once the matter was ended, and Sir Gawain rose as knight of the Sword and Raven, Kait and Anelle rushed to embrace him. Gareth hurried closer, as well, plucking at Gawain's sleeve and boasting of his own readiness to take arms. Other knights crowded round, but Gawain barely noticed, for Pier had vanished like smoke. Off to their father's court with the news, no doubt. But Gawain wasn't the only one who noticed Pier's sudden departure. Said Morcar, quite loudly,

"Let the past be forgotten and my new liegeman welcomed. Anyone who thinks ill of his presence here… _anyone,_ be he king, knight or pike-man… is welcome to face me in a trial of arms."

A feast was declared, and Gawain partook, leaving the next day to return to the north and his comrades, with Lord Morcar's blessing. He had, after all, a quest to complete.


	76. 76: Alternative Action

I've edited 75 for clarity, then pushed on with a bit that belonged, but I hadn't time to tack on. Thanks for your reading and reviewing. It does mean a lot.

**76: Alternative Action**

_Tracy Island, so early in the morning that sunset and dawn were mere dreams-_

Alan shoved the food around on his plate as two distinct words came into his lowered blond head: _deluded_ and _idiot._ The kitchen table was noisy and crowded; the food (to him) unappetizing. Well… the fry bread was okay, sort of chewy, dense and oily, but he hated beans. Always had. Luckily, grandma was too busy dishing up Virgil's third helping to notice just how much soggy beanage Alan had rolled up into a paper napkin and stuffed under the edge of his plate. His mom didn't notice, either, being occupied with hanging crystals around people's necks. Alan got some kind of pink and green one. Supposed to be good for battling negative infections or something like that.

So… yeah; Virgil was eating like Gordon usually did, while Scott had already gotten up from the table, arguing with Brains via wrist comm.

"That's fine," he snapped. "Do all the cell phone ping-tracing you want, Brains. I'm going to launch now, and I'm going to find my damn brother. End of story."

Not to Hackenbacker.

_"S-Scott,"_ he said, _"…simply combing th- the Pacific without a d- definite plan is, ah… is counterproductive to actual s- success. You'll w- waste fuel, __and__ valuable time!"_

But the still-shirtless fighter pilot shook his head, stubborn as a granite cliff. To Hackenbacker (down at the infirmary with Kyrano) he said,

"You're probably making all kinds of sense, Brains, but if I sit here, I'm going to explode. Call me up when you've got something definite. In the meantime, I'll be out _there_, looking for John."

…Which pretty much settled _that._ Scott Tracy paused long enough to kiss grandma's forehead, say goodbye to Gennine, and growl a few comments at his brothers and Fermat. Then he left the room, riding a great big surge of caffeine and concern.

Fermat was sketching something on a napkin beside Alan… some junk about the search area being wrong, and why John was actually much further northeast of there… but Alan didn't listen. He had someone else on his mind. Someone about to try out a really, breathtakingly _dumb_, idea_._ He should have realized that before and said something earlier, while Gordon was still in the room and stoppable, but his brother might not have listened. Not to _him_, anyway. Alan had a trick for that, though, sitting right across the polished wood table, vacuuming up supper.

"Um… Virgil?"

His ravenous brother stopped scraping the plate long enough to look at him, brown eyes guarded and wary.

"What's on your mind, Alan?" The way he said that… well, Alan got visions of a bomb-squad guy poking a mysterious box with a long stick. Dude! For real, play a few funny tricks and _nobody_ trusted you. Not even on neutral ground like the kitchen and dining room table.

Alan squared his shoulders and put a little Jeff Tracy-style bass in his voice, or tried to.

"I was, uh… just remembering something that Gordon told me. About going out alone to, y'know, lure the Hood into making a move."

Virgil's jaw dropped.

"You're kidding me," he said.

"Well… no. See, Gordon thought he could maybe pin the Hood in his head and then take one of his painkillers, so, like… if somebody asked him questions about John, they'd get a straight answer. I mean, hey, it _could have_ worked. Maybe."

Virgil Tracy surged to his feet like a robbed and furious bear. He was a big guy, and _big_ plus _really mad_ equaled serious trouble.

"Stay here!" Virgil snapped at Alan and Fermat, before just about smashing his own door through the kitchen wall. Serious trouble, for sure.

Meanwhile, outside on the lower pool deck, Gordon's blind, painful rush halted, suddenly. Oddly… he'd just got a strange, warming sense of well-being; that, somehow, matters had sorted themselves. Gotten just a bit righter.

Didn't make a damned bit of sense, on the face of it. After all, the pools were a ruin, both of them. TinTin couldn't abide his touch. The Hood was snaking about, wreaking havoc at will, and John had crashed in the bloody Pacific. Yet…

Choosing an up-thrust section of rubble, Gordon sat down. …Yet, he felt as though something good had happened, or was about to. He scuffed the heels of his leather shoes through a layer of impacted ash, listening to the wind as it braided and played through the treetops. Missed the birds and tree frogs, he did, but supposed they'd be back soon enough, happy as larks for all the new fertilizer. In the meantime, a rising wind made soft, gusting sounds, and branches cast moving shadows in the glow of the distant house-lights. Pleasant enough, in their fashion.

Sighing, Gordon put a hand in one pocket and toyed with the vial of tablets it contained. He'd intended to swallow one, opening a way for the Hood and then somehow trapping the villain for questioning. Except that he wasn't at all certain how to go about it. And, alone on the pool deck under scudding dark clouds and far-off stars, Gordon couldn't decide whether he ought to proceed, or no.

_Moronic thing to do, isn't it? _He worried. _Asinine, in fact._

He sat there staring at the sad remains of his pool, feeling a faint sting and burning from under his bandages, wishing that matters had come off differently; that his ideas were at all useful, and that TinTin loved him. Was that it, then? Was he doing all this to protect and impress her? Or Amy and Joyce, back at the hospital in Darwin? And if so, what now?

There comes a point in a man's life when he realizes he's begun something utterly foolish. He may then admit the mistake, accept a bit of teasing and pull back from the brink… Or push on, driven by pride and stupidity. Gordon teetered this way and that, thinking one moment 'yes' and the next 'no'. Then he heard running footsteps; the hard _slam-slam-slam_ of a large man racing from the mansion at a breakneck pace.

Pulling the hand from his pocket, Gordon rose to his feet in time to greet an anxious, out of breath, Virgil. The artist and athlete came panting up, seized his younger brother's shoulders and then began shaking him.

"Gordon… you okay? Everything straight… kiddo?"

To which the rattling swimmer replied,

"Bloody wonderful, exceptin' th' popped scars an' broken neck!"

Sagging with released tension, Virgil let him go. He pressed the face of his wrist comm next, snapping,

"All clear. "

Then, casting a quick, dark look at the mansion, Virgil muttered,

"I'm gonna kill him! I'm gonna _nail_ that little rat-punk bastard! He got me, again! Said you were out here popping pain meds and tackling the Hood, alone. Had me running off like an idiot after your ID chip track. God! What a relief… but Alan dies. Now. Tonight. This time, I mean it."

Gordon hesitated a moment before answering the spark-eyed, lamp-traced silhouette of his brother. Not _too_ long, though. Give him that.

"Well, erm… I _had_ rather intended t' try somethin' of the sort… but thought better of it. That is t' say, I _wouldn't_ have. Actually gone through with th' notion, that is."

"I'm glad," Virgil told him, maintaining an admirably level tone, "because, kiddo, you've pulled some dumb-ass stunts since I've known you, but this one's a whopper, even for you."

"Right."

Before either young man could speak further, the pool deck's floodlights cut on. The launch-alarm blatted and squawked; a crackling shadow of its former self. Still highly motivating, though. Virgil and Gordon evacuated the area at once, staying just near enough to watch as the ground began to rumble. A couple of jury-rigged doors creaked apart, dropping ash and bits of concrete as they drew slowly open. Moments later, with an apocalyptic roar, sleek, silvery Thunderbird 1 shot from her hangar and into the night sky, riding an expanding pillar of orange flame.

The brothers looked on, craning their necks to follow the flight of Scott's Bird, up and away through the gusting wind and torn clouds. Until the floodlights lost her and so did they. Until roar faded to whisper, and then silence.

"There and back in one piece," Virgil murmured, still searching skyward. "Fly safe, buddy."


	77. 77: Pilot Error

Edited. Thanks, Panoply, ED and Tikatu, for your reviews.

**77: Pilot Error**

_Tracy Island-_

Nothing in the world was quite so frustrating as to develop a good idea… the _right_ idea, he was sure of it… and yet have everyone ignore you because you were merely a kid. Which, of course, was the story of Fermat Hackenbacker's short life. (Kurt Bremmerman, really, though he used the name so rarely that it hardly mattered.)

At any rate, young Fermat had been studying his father's data. Like everyone else, the boy was concerned about John's disappearance; holding out hope like a hand-shielded candle, but worried, nonetheless. His father was Jeff Tracy's chief engineer and a good friend of John's. To Fermat, surely the smartest, most capable man in the world. Yet, on this one point, just a little, his father was wrong. And the error lay in a simple misinterpretation of data.

Checking cell towers and satellites for pings from John's phone had been a good idea. There were very few data points, true, but the triangulated pings he'd so far plotted seemed to indicate that John had veered off course earlier than believed, swerving east of his filed flight path by almost half a degree. If so… and if he'd flown until his fuel ran out… then the searchers were rushing to the wrong spot, entirely. But dad wouldn't accept that, because he felt that John couldn't have fallen so swiftly to the Hood. Not without more of a struggle.

Fermat sighed, regarding the slightly crumpled napkin-map he'd drawn for Alan. The correct search area lay quite a bit north and east, centered upon the island of Midway. Alan hadn't listened any better than Fermat's dad, though, being too busy with accepted fact and fleeting distraction to absorb a contrary viewpoint. People saw and believed what they wanted to, every time.

The boy was alone at the kitchen table, now, absent-mindedly piling up dishes. Sure… the repair mechs could have tidied up, but Grandma Tracy couldn't stand them, while Alan's mom claimed that they troubled her chi, so out of sight the drones remained. Everyone _else_ was off dealing with Kyrano, Gordon and a stubbornly-missing John.

As he stacked plates and rattling cutlery, greatly reducing the room's entropy number, Fermat considered. His father was a great engineer and a brilliant scientist. Was not Fermat, himself, proof? The boy's mother had died before his birth, after all. Twelve _months_ before, to be exact.

Dwight and Myrna Bremmerman had decided to delay having children for the sake of her career, and his. Thinking ahead, they'd had several hundred of her eggs removed and frozen for later use, once she'd published enough papers and won sufficient prestige to land a professorship. But happy, loving couples plan and fate decides. Myrna was killed in a car accident, driving home from her second job, late one December evening.

The world ended for Dwight Bremmerman, as well; brought to a numbing halt in a welter of screeching brakes, shattering glass, crumpled metal and blaring horns. Or it would have, if there hadn't remained that tiny vial of frozen eggs. That, and a suitably distant job offer.

With Jeff Tracy's advance check, he'd gone about hiring a surrogate mother and Princeton's fertility research team. Twelve months afterward… twelve months too late… he and Myrna had their son; the child they'd talked about and planned for. A son she'd never see. Then, widowed father to a motherless infant, he'd plunged into work and hiding on Tracy Island, very far away from pain, loss and memory. Dwight and Kurt Bremmerman had vanished from Princeton, New Jersey. Hiram and Fermat Hackenbacker turned up for duty on Jeff Tracy's private island. Or, Hiram did. Fermat just grew up and played there, making friends with Alan, TinTin and Gordon.

Dr. Hackenbacker _was_ a genius. But sometimes even great minds could miss things, and Fermat was positive that his father had missed _this._ So had everyone else, for that matter. Everyone but the boy, himself. Should he leave it alone, Fermat wondered, as he conveyed his tottering stack of greasy plates to the sink? Was it wiser to keep his head down and his mouth shut, or…?

Carefully setting the piled monument to grandma's cooking on a spotless countertop, Fermat stared through the kitchen windows at gusty, tossing darkness. Maybe he just hadn't told the right people. Grandma Tracy had a knack for solving puzzles and eliminating confusion. She and Scott would probably listen. After all, Thunderbird 1 was already up there, fruitlessly searching the wrong stretch of ocean. Scott had to be getting frustrated, and he might welcome a shot of renewed hope, especially if his grandmother backed it.

Cleaning his hands with gurgling-cold tap water and a few hasty swipes at his shirt, Fermat all at once made up his mind. Couldn't hurt to try, could it?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Colorado, at the Broadmoor Resort Hotel-_

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward did not return to her rooms, that night. Rather than leave a clearly disoriented Jeff Tracy to his own devices, the noblewoman chose to put him to bed like a drunkard, and then pass the evening upon a fin-de-siecle divan in the CEO's palatial suite; almost a mansion, in itself. At first, she sat stiffly.

Through the leaded and beveled French doors, Penny could see a swarm of brilliant stars, seeming close enough to catch with a long-handled net. Striving toward them, the Rocky Mountains made a line of tall, jagged silhouettes. Nice enough, Her Ladyship supposed, if one _fancied_ that sort of thing. The Pyrenees were very much nicer, though; less excessively outré and masculine. But Americans valued size and newness above all else, she knew. Such overlarge mountain ranges appealed to their pride.

Was her hair clip's model…Orion, he'd called it… out there amongst all those slow-wheeling pin-pricks? Penelope couldn't tell. John enjoyed mapping the night sky. She preferred television, popular novels and covert action.

Missing him, Penny took up her cell phone, curled herself tight on the big, brocade couch, and began keying his number. Didn't expect a response, really; merely wished to sit in the dark and listen to his voice:

_"John Tracy. I'm occupied. Leave a message."_

…Over and over, many times. Bloody cold and remote, he sounded, just like his wearisome stars, yet she listened repeatedly. Left messages, even.

Around four the next day, once Jeff had arisen and Penelope at last nipped off to freshen up, her cell phone rang. Not a number she recognized, for the tone was an ordinary buzzing noise, not one of her dedicated musical bits. Nearly, Penelope let it go. Nearly… but not quite. Perhaps she'd had what John would have termed 'a hunch'. Or possibly the timing struck her. He was never appropriate, subtle or elegant, and so a ring just as Penny emerged from her bath seemed particularly apt. Particularly John-like.

So, whipping a thick, fleecy white towel from its golden hook, the freshly-scrubbed lady concealed all her naughty bits and lunged for the buzzing phone.

"Hello?" Penelope responded breathlessly, only just not slipping on the bathroom's Italian marble floor. (Looked well in the warm track lights, she did, even wobbling about half-clad and miserably damp. Good breeding, don't you know...) She'd never have admitted it to another soul, but Penny's fingers were just then so tightly crossed that they actually hurt. "Who is this, please?"

_"Hey. It's me. You called?"_

Penelope sat down quite abruptly, her back against the cold marble bath, with its lavender suds and gold fixtures. Sat, because her legs would not hold her.

"John, darling…?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Fletcher's Rock, in the rolling-vast Pacific-_

Well, if he hadn't suspected the Hood before, he sure would have done it, now. John had returned from his look-see, determined to patch up the comm and make contact. Got a few surprises when he came back aboard for a thorough assessment, though.

First, the plane was brick-kiln hot, even with her boarding ramp lowered. The tropical sun was _that _fierce and unyielding. Second, once he reached the cockpit and began flipping switches, everything that hadn't already shorted out flashed red and wild as a damn carbon star.

Pretty near all of his radio, internet and cell phone equipment had been sabotaged the night before, almost beyond repair. Somehow, he'd removed and snapped in half his phone's SIM card, stuffing the pieces away in an armrest compartment. Even his laptop was screwed, the screen repeatedly slashed and stabbed with a pen before being returned to its case. The Gulfstream's onboard system had been trashed, as well, with a handful of ugly shell scripts. John couldn't help recognizing the codes, for he'd written them himself, some time ago. Yeah. All this, while dumping fuel and heading blithely away from safety.

Well… _shit._ In fact, shit squared. Or, hey… why not jam the whole mess through the Wheeler-DeWitt equation and marvel at the amazing result; some kind of god-awful, everything-happens-to-John, nightmare universe, bet on it.

Self-pity occupied something like two and a half minutes. He couldn't be any more precise, because his wrist comm was broken, too. But John didn't have time to sit around worrying. The Gulfstream's battery wasn't limitless. Nor was its water supply. There had to be a cistern somewhere on the island, left over from its wartime occupation. Didn't mean he could reach it, though, or that the cistern held potable water. If he recalled correctly, there were no rivers or springs on Fletcher's damn Rock, so he'd just have to conserve what he had, and work fast. The clock was ticking, after all… or would have been, if John hadn't worked _that_ over, along with everything else. Maybe he hadn't thrown the weird-ass gemstone far enough?

For just a moment longer, John slumped against uncomfortably hot leather, rubbing his closed eyes with the fingers of both hands. Then he straightened up, took an aspirin dry, and set to work cannibalizing parts from the radio, wrist comm, cell phone and laptop. Took awhile, but the work absorbed him, helping the stranded astronaut to forget all that heat and destruction. For a time, anyway.

Around noon, he had to abandon the gasping-hot cockpit for a seat outside, in the plane's deep shadow. Just then, he didn't mind that the airstrip was cracked-up and grassy. Softer, that way. Cooler, too.

There was nothing much to do but swat insects and think through his remaining wires and data paths. He gazed at the jungle, and the trees stared back, maybe figuring they'd won another round. John flipped them rudely off, muttering,

"Not yet, you haven't. There's got to be fuel here, somewhere."

Underground, most likely. But probably not kerosene, which was what the Gulfstream's volcanic appetite demanded. World War II aircraft had used regular avgas. Oh, well… plenty of time for plan B, supposing that things were all right, still, back home.

John sat there watching as the sun inched a slow, one-degree-every-four-minutes path across the sky, moving just often enough to stay in the shade. Of course, he'd have to smooth things over with the folks back at Johnson and Kennedy… especially that brand-new flight surgeon. A problem, because Dr. Bennett was female, and females worried a lot. She'd try to make a big deal about the crash landing, probably; maybe even questioning his mission-readiness. He'd have to develop some kind of strategy for dealing with her; a high-ranking female comprehension algorithm, or something. Work for another day.

Thirst and mounting impatience finally drove John back aboard. It was about ten degrees cooler in there, now, and his gutted, Frankenstein wire-ups were somewhat easier to focus on. He got another small drink, went to the head (for the last time; to save water, he was just going to have to start donating his bit to the great outdoors, like it or not) and then ate a few pretzels.

Two hours passed swiftly, taken up in the best way possible besides spaceflight or sex: making things function. Figuring out and programming a new system. But at last, once the last connection was soldered, John powered up the cockpit, again, hoping for the best. Almost immediately, he got a voice-only cell phone signal. Checked his message box first, because that's what he always did. Shook his head over it, because Scott and Virgil between them had called fifteen times, and Penny had left… _eight messages?_

Pushing sweat-dampened blond hair from his forehead, John considered a moment, and then decided to call her back. She was with dad, after all, so he'd be dropping two birds with one shot. (Or so he told himself). Penny picked up on the third ring, sounding out of breath, or something. Maybe he'd caught her… well… There could be a hundred reasons she'd sound hurried and breathless. Around his father. At a hotel.

"_Hello? Who is this, please?"_

"Hey. It's me. You called?"

"_John, darling…?"_

"Yeah. Speaking. What's on your mind, Penny?"

After a moment, she whispered,

"_Are you… that is to say… You're quite all right, then? Someone's contrived to locate and rescue you? They've been searching quite thoroughly since you were first reported missing, don't you know."_

John shook his head.

"Not exactly. That's why I called. Got something to write on, or a decent record feature?"

"_Yes, dear, I have; and it's perfectly lovely to hear from you."_

"Thanks. Same here." Which, funnily enough, he actually meant. "I'm stuck on a fly's whisker island called Fletcher's Rock, at 27 N, 167 10 W. Old World War II refueling stop. Can't miss it. _I_ didn't."

"_But you are well and uninjured, darling, are you not?"_ Her voice was a bright and quivery thing, or else he was losing signal.

"Pretty much. A few bruises and incipient heat stroke, but other than that, good to go. So, um… I take it everything's okay? Is dad around? Because… I mean…" _Damn._ He positively could not lie convincingly, under pressure. Nevertheless, John kept going. "I tried reaching him earlier, but his /dev/John/null file is full, already."

Kind of a joke, but she didn't get it.

"_All is well with the others, but your dear father has had a __most__ trying night. Jeff faced dreadful provocation from a World Government transport official, besides receiving word of your crash and an unsuitably worded invitation from Congressman Shields. He shall be most relieved, I'm sure, to learn that you've made contact with me, John."_

Something eased a little, inside him. A lot of somethings.

"Dad's not around, huh? Where you could, say… put him on the phone?"

"_No, darling. I'm afraid not. Terribly sorry."_

John smiled a little, looking out through the plane's windshield at seething jungle, tarmac and weeds. Penny _wasn't_ with his father, after all, and things were okay, back home.

"No problem. Tell you what: let him know where I am, and that I'm going to need two wing tanks' worth of fuel. He'll know how much that is. Plus, a new nose wheel and a hydraulic jack. I popped a tire coming down."

"_Your aeroplane is intact, still?"_ She sounded surprised, he thought.

"Yeah. Flyable, too, if I can just get some fuel and a wheel. Give me time to contact Scott and Brains before you make any public announcements, though. I'd like to get repaired and fly into the Philippines on my own power, if possible. Looks better."

"_Understood, darling. What shall we say happened?"_

John had an answer for that one.

"Tell them that bad weather and instrument failure drove me off course, necessitating an emergency landing on Fletcher's Rock." Anything at all but the deadly, wince-inducing, 'pilot error'.

"_I shall use precisely those words, John, dear. And… I very much look forward to seeing you, as well as proceeding with our vacation plans."_

Really he'd wasted enough time on a social call. He had to get her off the phone and reach Scott. Still, John prolonged the conversation long enough to say,

"Yeah. Me, too. It'll be a couple of days, because I have to give some kind of press conference explaining what happened, and then resolve a few things with an old friend, but we'll get together."

Maybe they'd fly out to Houston for his inevitable physical and mental exams, and then take off, from there. Something.

Once he got Penny off the line, John received a brief radio hail from the _SS Defiant_; a naggingly familiar name. He couldn't hunt down the reference through all of that heat and emotional turbulence, though. Not immediately. They'd picked up his renewed comm signal, and he was supposed to be eager for rescue, so John had no choice but to answer the query.

"Defiant, this is John Tracy, in Gulfstream delta tango bravo, two-niner-seven, forced to make an emergency landing yesterday evening on Fletcher's Rock, 27 N, 167 10 W. Not in the area, are you?"

There response was brisk and (unfortunately) positive.

"_Sure are, Mr. Tracy. Estimate four hours away from your stated location. Are you in need of medical assistance? We've got a helicopter aboard ship."_

John sighed. Just when you got things in order, somebody always pulled out the critical piece.

"I'm not injured, Defiant. Repeat, am not injured. Please inform my family and NASA that you've found me, though. They're probably worried."

"_Will do, Mr. Tracy. We'll be there before you know it, with cameras rolling."_

Wait. Cameras? Already…? Okay, definitely, he had to reach Scott and get ahold of some jet fuel. But the next to get through was his brother's fiancée, on her way out from the mainland, apparently.

"_Pooky! Alive and well, I take it?"_

Wonderful.

"Alive, but less well by the second. Weren't you through talking to me, Taylor?"

"_Aww… bad timing, cuddle-buns?"_

"Just busy. Intensely busy, and about to wind up on camera. So, if you don't mind…"

"_Imagine that, Pooks! Fame and fortune. Just what you need."_

"Not if I can help it. For career and security reasons, I'd rather have this whole thing blow over as quietly as possible."

He was getting another migraine, comprised of heat, stress, soldering fumes and Cindy-damn-Taylor.

"_Uh-huh. Look at the bright side. What we have here is a public relations opportunity, Pooky-Bear. Time to face the press and unpack your adjectives."_

"Shit."

"_Not an adjective."_

"Bite me, Taylor."

"_More of an imperative verb phrase, that time. Keep trying."_

She was enjoying the situation… and Scott deserved another medal and sainthood, if he actually married the woman.

"I'm hanging up now, Taylor. Go kick your pilot or stick your head out the window for air. It'll do you good."

"_Wait,"_ she laughed, just as he was about to make good on his threat. _"Seriously, John, I can help. You need a press-conference worthy speech in a quick damn hurry, am I right? Well…?"_

Hurt to admit it, but…

"Yes. I do. Got something in mind?"

Taylor almost managed to keep the smug 'gotcha' note out of her voice as she boasted,

"_Absolutely. Just as long as I get the post-rescue exclusive. Relax, fella… you're family. I'll go easy in __our__ interview, and I can pen you something bold, funny and still grateful-sounding for theirs, trust me. The film crew will be delighted with their footage, and NASA will get so much free publicity they'll ask why you aren't getting lost more often. Just remember to smile, John, and don't ad lib."_

Right. Smile for the cameras, stick to the script. What could possibly go wrong with that scenario?


	78. 78: Check

Freshly edited. Thanks for your patience and kind indulgence.

**78: Check**

_In a foggy, insubstantial place built of never-will and haven't-done…_

Her stillness was not torpor, but preparation. She did not shrink from action, but thought very carefully, first. How else could she be than hesitant, when all activity must fail at the end, and all hope freeze into loss? Only darkness was real; only the void would persist.

The chaos-stuff around her moved but rarely, reflecting her own long passivity. But ice covers continents, oceans receed, and Entropy formed new decisions. Her enemy's tool was badly warped, now, and greatly reduced in power. It might be dealt with in the time and manner of her choosing. Yet the Hooded One and Crowned Skull… Terror and War… were balked temporarily, at best. Given time, they'd be freed to move against her, delaying the end, yet again. Their interference was all but guaranteed. Had they not blocked her, before/ later/ eternally?

Their elimination, however, would clear the gameboard for one terrible, all-powerful player and her distant, rule-bound opponent. The forces of Chaos and order, Darkness and light would face one another directly, destroying all space, time and movement between them, bringing about the welcome finish.

…But only if she was willing to sacrifice a few pieces of her own. Namely, her traitorous former allies.

Shifting place and perspective, the Queen of the Lost in some way untranslatable placed herself before the binding gems of her fellow demon lords. Bone-pale hands reached forth, splitting chaos to caress the glowing stones, fogging their surfaces with her grave-like chill. No violence followed. Only the accelerated passage of time. Long ages and cold, hollow eons fluttered past. With her comrades' prisons in tow, Night-Woman visited the bleak far end of one universe, moving beyond it to a horde of numbingly similar others; her unwanted progeny and inescapable sentence.

Perhaps ten-thousand iterations grew, flowered and collapsed before a change became evident in the binding stones. Worn by the astronomical weight of unending time, they eventually cracked. Passively assaulted, her trapped victims were helpless to strike back, for no victory was possible against the destructive power of entropy. Instead, like mortals, they perished; gemstones converting to dust, immortal spirits to nothing but scattered and ghostly debris, whose fading power she swallowed like sunlight. A first pair of endings.

In another realm, a certain WorldGov maritime transport official collapsed and died of a massive heart attack, on the eve of his appointment with President Moreira. In Australia, a second man (less well known to those outside Malaysia, the CIA and Interpol) began to shriek and claw at his own flesh as though burning with fire. Despite all that the Darwin Airport security team and a crowd of by-standers could do, he was dead in three minutes, leaving an open and buzzing cell phone to clatter and spin on the terminal floor.

Tracing the call netted them one terribly confused American congressman, who'd just returned with his daughter from near-tragedy in Darwin. Very odd doings, indeed, as Representative Shields claimed no knowledge at all of a "Mr. Belaghant", despite the fact that the man had called his private number not once, but repeatedly; without a single conversation being caught and recorded. Stranger yet, he passed a lie-detector test on the matter. Bill Shields apparently knew nothing whatever about the unfortunate second death of Mr. Belaghant. Hosted a damn fine party for Jeff Tracy at the site of his new airframe production plant in Colorado, though.

On Kanaho, a trusted servant exhaled deeply, rolled over on his sickbed and then slipped from trance to wakefulness, much to his daughter's relief. Even Jeff felt better, though parts of the night before were lost to him, forever, and a fabulous treasure in gold had yet to cause all of its future trouble.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, just before dawn, that same day-_

Victoria Tracy had indeed lit her candles and murmured her prayers, enlisting God and the Virgin Mary. But she also went outside in the early morning to face the Four Directions and respectfully address them, one at a time; just an old woman bargaining for the safekeeping and eventual return of her missing grandson.

This wasn't like space, that endless void without direction or voice. This was Earth. So she tore up a piece of fry bread in handfuls as she spoke to the ground, sea and sky, to North, East, South and West, asking for their patience and protection. Not for herself. What difference did the well-being of one tired and widowed old woman make?

For her family, she drew the circle, scattered torn bread and faced the Directions. For John Matthew, who she felt very strongly was out there, somewhere, alive. To the wind and water, ground and rising sun Victoria said, very simply,

"Send him back, please. We done lost enough already with Lucy and Grant bein' gone. Send him, Scott and Jeffery back, please; safe, sound and soon."

She was irritated, at first, when young Fermat came puffing up from the South, gasping,

"Mrs. Tracy! M- Mrs. Tracy! Could I… talk to y- you… a minute, please?"

Irritated, but attentive. And it wasn't at all long before things started happening and word got sent, altering the designated search area.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Fletcher's Rock, a speck in the great Pacific-_

John got off the line with Houston after what felt like a grinding eternity of explanation. He'd decided to call, reassuring Saul Guthrie (the astronaut liaison) that he was still in one piece and well enough to run a marathon in full survival gear. Backward.

Maybe Saul believed him and maybe not, but he seemed glad enough to hear that John was alive. Made sense, really, as it was much less expensive to run a few medical tests than train a new guy and bring him up to speed on the lunar re-supply missions. Whatever, the patched line wasn't even cold, had barely had time to click over, when a signal got through from Scott.

Six minutes later, Thunderbird 1 howled overhead at close to top speed, shaking the trees and ground when her shock wave caught up to her. Felt like another damn earthquake, but this one, John didn't mind so much.

Thunderbird 1 banked around, glittering like a spear-point in the hard, blazing sunlight, coming back for a second low pass. She landed on full burn and high impellers, torching grasses and fusing the runway back into one long, glassy ribbon of tar.

John climbed from his plane to watch, confident in Scott's piloting skills and the strength of Thunderbird 1's projected force field. With good reason. Trees swayed and lashed around him, asphalt bubbled and spat like volcanic mud, but John and the Gulfstream remained safely shielded from harm. Fumes, wind, debris; even sound was excluded by that shimmering, pale blue bubble. John _saw_ the rough, blazing chaos of the Bird's landing, but he didn't smell, hear or feel it.

The rocket plane's skids touched down pretty hard, flinging up tar in great sheets. Maybe Scott tried speaking to him (judging by the fact that his wrist comm buzzed a little) but John couldn't read him. Instead, the astronaut tapped at the broken wrist watch and shook his head. _Still no comm._

The force shield adjusted a bit in response. There was too much burnt ash and vaporized asphalt in the air to allow for much shield expansion, but Scott tried, adding a short connection to his Bird's loudspeaker. Of course, the force bubble was small, the noise enormous and John (once again hosting a savage migraine) not very happy with the result.

**"I'll BE DOWN IN A MINUTE!"** Scott roared, sounding like a mountain, clearing its throat. The transmitted vibrations shuddered clear through the trapped air and John, himself, while echoes boomed and cracked all around him like bottled thunder. Dazed, John drew a finger across his throat in a quick, slashing "shut up!" gesture. It wasn't until the worst of the dust and stench settled that they were able to meet and converse. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Long enough for him to swallow another few aspirin, anyway, and lose most of that wretched headache.

As soon as he could, Scott lowered a boarding ladder and expanded the force bubble, letting in a hellish whiff of charred grass and puddling creosote. He slid down the ladder rather than descending properly, which dad and Brains would have torn him up about, had they been there. John started forward to meet his uniformed brother, smothering a raw-throated cough as well as he could. Rough day so far, but improving by the moment.

"Hey, Scott," he called. Once the gap closed, they shook hands and then briefly, awkwardly embraced. "Glad you could make it."

Scott pounded his back and then stepped away, saying,

"Hey, yourself. Sorry about all the noise. How's it going?"

John shrugged, suddenly aware of his own battered and grimy state.

"Okay, I guess."

Jerking a thumb over one shoulder at the Gulfstream, he added,

"I blew a tire coming down. Don't suppose you've got a spare, and some jet fuel?"

Scott grinned at him, pleased all over the place.

"Depends. Got my fifty dollars, little brother?"

Pointing at the gutted and ruined building beyond his newly re-surfaced runway, John said,

"ATM's broken. Besides… as I recall, you owe _me._ And it's one-seventy-five, not fifty. I cleaned you out during the hospital shift change, and accepted a note for the rest. Got it here, somewhere. Blackjack isn't your game, Scott. Old Maid, maybe, or Uno even, but I _always_ beat you at Blackjack."

The fighter pilot started to protest, but his sun-burnt blond sibling plowed right over the sputtering words with,

"All joking aside, I'll be happy to accept fuel and repairs in lieu of cash, but we need to hurry. As in, immediately. _Now_."

Scott laughed. His eyes squinted and his dimples deepened in the way that meant he really did find something funny. An easy expression to read, even for John.

"I should have left your ass here and kept right on going," he said. "Most people aren't this demanding about the exact pace of their rescue."

John grunted.

"Most people don't have a flight surgeon and goddam review board to deal with… or an on-rushing film crew, either. Quit stalling and help me fix the plane. For public relations reasons, I mostly plan to rescue myself."

Alerted by Cindy and Grandma, Scott had looped back to the island for high-grade kerosene and a tire. He was prepared for this scenario, despite all the teasing. (Wasn't so sure about that fifty dollars, though. He'd lost the game? _How_? John had been up all night watching Gordon and doing computerized busywork for NASA. He shouldn't have been able to count his own fingers, much less the blasted cards. )

They got to work, using a wheeled, semi-sentient hydraulic jack to lift the Gulfstream's elegant nose, and then a grav-carted tool case to remove and replace her shredded wheel. They didn't talk much for awhile. The air stung like claws, and it was blast-furnace hot out there. Scott soon peeled down the top of his blue uniform coverall and tied it about his waist by the sleeves. John was down to his tee shirt, already, bearing discomfort as silently as ever.

"You'll never guess what I was thinking about just now," Scott ventured, as he crouched down to ratchet off a stubborn lug-nut. Virgil tightened machine parts like a damn gorilla.

John glanced up from inspecting the tire's pressure gauge.

"No… but you expect me to try anyhow, don't you? That's what people mean when they say: _you'll never guess what I fill-in-the-blank._ Right. So… you're hungry? Missing your favorite TV show? Your back hurts? I suck at this kind of thing."

Scott shook his head, smiling broadly.

"No, to all three guesses… and _yes,_ you do; which is why I can usually hold my own at poker. Actually… Help me off with this thing, John. It's heavy as hell. On three: One… two… and... _push."_

Shoved at by both young men, the loosened tire screeched free of its strut, bounced once, rolled a bit, and then flopped onto its side with a muffled _thunk. _There it would lay on the heat-warped tarmac, forever, probably. Scott sighed, and kept talking.

"…Actually, I was thinking about the time dad got lost out here, and we came up with that plan to find him. Remember that?"

John spun an even heavier new tire into place, shrugging.

"I don't know. I guess. It's been awhile." _And they hadn't succeeded._ "What about it?"

Scott helped him to wrestle the replacement tire onto the jet's vacant white strut; muttering oaths and sweating like longshoremen, the pair of them. Unfortunately, the sun's angle had just about demolished their last hint of shade.

"Nothing… _uh_ …much. Just came to my mind because… _oof_… dammit! There it goes, again! …Because you went down in almost the same place as dad. One more time, John. You hold it up, I'll push it on. Ready…?" Scott hurled himself at the recalcitrant wheel as John braced the thing, wishing he'd thought to pack a can of WD-40. A little lubricant would certainly have come in handy. But one shove... two more and then...

"There! We got it."

Scott backed away from the tire, shaking exhausted cramps from his arms and stiff neck. Tossing John a water flask, he said,

"I wanted to tell mom. She was crying so much, and I thought she'd feel better if she knew we had the situation under control… Know what I mean?"

John didn't reply directly, but the ferocity with which he hurled his drained bottle back into the tool case was entirely unjustified. Obviously, he was not comfortable discussing this.

"Whatever. Who gives a shit? The plan didn't work, did it?"

"Only because NASA found him first, John. They had better resources back then. God! I remember…"

The dark-haired pilot laughed ruefully, refusing to be put off by John's rigid posture and averted face.

"…She was sitting on the bed listening to her one-way squawk box and crying like a baby. Pete was outside chasing reporters away from the windows and lawn. Anyway, I sat down on the blanket beside her and said: _It's okay, mommy. If they don't ever find dad, you could marry me, instead."_

John glanced at him; just for a second, just a little bit. And in a quiet voice, he asked,

"What did sh… I mean, what happened, then?"

Scott's arms folded tight across his own tee-shirted chest.

"She cried harder," he admitted, "but she kind of scooped me close and hugged me, rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed like I was still a baby."

Unspoken was the sentiment: _God, I miss her._ Scott wouldn't say it and neither would his brother, who simply bent to replace and tighten that circle of lug-nuts.

"You want to set up the fuel line?" John suggested, abruptly changing the subject. "I'm almost through, here."

No. Scott wanted to talk. He wanted his brother's clearer, more detailed memories of their mom to be opened up and shared out, but it wasn't the sort of thing he knew how to ask for, or that John was likely to allow. Still,

"Did you ever talk to her about it? I know she could speak to you like an adult, even back then. Did you tell her about our search?"

John stood up and threw his wench into the big red tool case, then set about arranging and re-ordering everything he'd knocked loose, making an awful lot of noise in the process.

"No," he snapped. "Why the hell would I? The plan was supposed to be kept secret, in case it didn't work, which it didn't. End of story. You know what? Screw it. _I'll_ get the fuel line set up. You stand here and daydream."

"Look, I'm sorry," Scott told him, seizing his brother's arm as John tried to stalk off. "The situation made me think, is all. I'll shut up about her. Seriously."

John looked everywhere else but at Scott, not really seeing the turquoise-bright sky, steaming jungle and decaying structures that his dark blue eyes flicked over and past. Then, too quickly, he said,

"Not a problem. I'm good. Let's wrap this up, though, because company's coming, and you'll want to be well out of camera range before they arrive."

And then, more sharply,

"Let _go_, Scott. I've got things to do."

Reluctantly, the pilot released his hold on John's arm. He wasn't satisfied, but doubted that, even with strong beer, a two-headed quarter and a beachside bonfire, he'd ever get John to talk about their mother.

Thunderbird 1 was almost fifteen minutes gone by the time _Defiant _steamed over the horizon, bringing cameras and a first public chance to explain. Show time.


	79. 79: Poyekhali

Oops! Edited. A few words altered, here and there, some clarifications made, and one thing I _thought_ I'd patched up in second edit repaired. That's what I get for hurrying.

**79: Poyekhali**

_Fletcher's Rock, a soon-to-be-sprung Island prison-_

John stood at crumbling land's end with both hands in his pockets, watching as _Defiant_ anchored off shore and launched a motorized zodiac. Seemed to be quite a few people aboard, though it was hard to tell, from this distance and light angle. The water was much too rough and shallow to allow the main ship closer than half a mile.

"Poyekhali," John muttered into the steady, strong wind and surf-thunder, quoting Yuri Gagarin. _Let's go._

Not that he was eager to face the media feeding frenzy that was bound to follow his brief vanishing act. Not at all. Even with Cindy Taylor's suggested responses clenched firmly in mind, John's throat felt tight and his breathing turned shallow. To help calm himself, he'd washed up and shaved on the hotbox plane; afterward changing into one of Virgil's spare outfits, which floated on him, but at least was clean. So much for appearances.

Dad had been recovered by a combined NASA/ WASP search team, looking battered but heroic in his torn flight suit and stained bandages; smiling, even. John recalled the first news reports quite vividly. He'd been sitting in the living room on Uncle Pete's lap, mom holding Virgil beside them while poor Aunt Lydia, heavily pregnant with Stephanie, levered herself off the couch for another bathroom trip.

Pete smelled like lots of beer and nervous cigarettes, and a muscle in his arm kept jumping. Mom convulsively gripped small Virgil, who didn't really get what was happening, and cried a lot. Scott had been scrunched up in front of their mother on the carpeted floor, watching the television with unswerving blue eyes. One of mom's hands had drifted constantly from the top of Scott's tousled dark head to John's face and tense shoulder. He remembered that; her shaking hands and worry-chewed words. Her long golden hair, gleaming softly in lamplight and TV glow. The way from time to time she'd squeeze Pete's hand, and Lydia's. Waiting for proof. For images.

His memories were very detailed, but they were just recordings; un-helpful old stuff, and best not dwelt on. Once accessed, though, the memories were hard to turn off. Mom had cried a long time, when dad appeared on the television screen. She'd kissed everyone she could reach and then collapsed to the floor beside Scott, beautiful even when torn at by fear and relief.

Very briefly, as the zodiac bounced and surged closer, and the smudge within resolved itself into separate wet people, John tried to generalize. Would she have reacted that way, watching film of his own safe "rescue"? Evidence pointed to yes, since when he and runaway Scott had been found alive in a Kansas ditch, all those years back, their mother had sobbed and kissed them both, rather than yelling. But maybe that was a lost-little-kid or found-husband response, not triggered by different stimuli? And anyway, what the hell difference did it make? She wasn't alive to ask, and it didn't matter. Old stuff belonged in its boxes, buried deep as coffins and dead family pets. Besides, he had company.

Shaking memory off like cold water, John lifted a hand in greeting, and then caught the rope that the zodiac crew tossed him. They already had a camera rolling, the astronaut noted, automatically straightening his shoulders and paging through memorized notes.

This part of the small island had once boasted a wide cement pier, long since reduced to slimy debris by the surge-pounding-suck of the ocean. Not much left to tie up to but a few rusty, bent rings, but John managed, winding several lengths of braided orange rope around a slanted piling and then knotting the line through a flaking iron bracket. Might hold… if all of that decomposing metal held fast.

The zodiac's pilot thought so, evidently, for he goosed the engine and nosed his tough little grey boat closer in, avoiding dagger-sharp coral, snapped rebar and jutting concrete. Not easy to do, as the ocean's constant rise and fall left them sometimes level with the shore, sometimes scraping reef and old wreckage.

John got a pretty fair grip on the remains of a gun mount, and leaned out to offer a hand up. There was so much spray in the air that his eyes, nose and throat stung with salt, and he could hardly see or breathe. It was noisy, too, between that monstrous sea and the zodiac's thumping engine.

Somebody grabbed his hand, so John hauled him ashore, followed in stages by four well-wrapped others, and a very expensive camera.

"Farrell Cummings," the first guy introduced himself, once they'd pulled the boat out of the water, radioed in safe and set up their camera. He had a dark beard and grey eyes. "Mr. Tracy, I presume?"  
"John," the astronaut corrected him, ignoring the camera's steady red light and probing lens. "_Mr. Tracy_'s my father."

…And, oh yeah… according to Taylor, he was supposed to make a light joke, right about now.

"Thanks for attending the reenactment. Getting lost in the Pacific's sort of a family tradition." _Smile, but not too much, and maintain friendly eye-contact. They're not out for blood. If you relax, so will they._

"That's right," Farrell caught the verbal ball and tossed it right back. "Tracy, senior, went down out here, too… further south, though, wasn't it?"

"Three-hundred-twenty miles further, but he missed land and had to swim for it. I, um… got a World War II airstrip. Better tour package."

Farrell chuckled but shook his head, sending mixed signals. Had he used the wrong tone, John wondered? Stood there too stiffly? Should he have offered to shake hands?

"Good to see that you're feeling well enough to joke around. There's going to be a lot of relieved people at NASA. You didn't crash-land, I take it?"

Confused, John decided that his safest course was just to answer the question as calmly and boringly as possible. Nobody probed what didn't seem interesting.

"No. The Gulfstream's back that way, just beyond the blockhouse and a stand of big trees."

Farrell nodded, then lifted a hand to halt recording.

"Cut," he said, adding, "John, if it's all right with you, I'd like to film a few reaction shots… sort of show you close up, looking out at _Defiant_ and giving us that little wave, again. Then… need any water, or something to eat? I've got some chocolate bars and a care package from the galley… Anyway, if we set up again by the airstrip, you can explain what happened there, and we'll edit before uplinking to WNN. Sound good?"

_Sure. Whatever._

"Okay," the astronaut agreed, accepting a waterproof lunchbox from one of the team's females. Pretty and smiling, whoever she was. "Fine with me, but let's make it quick, please. I'd like to finish up and lift off in polynomial time, if possible."

Being a scientist, Farrell wasn't puzzled by the P/ NP programming reference.

"You've got fuel?" he asked, instead.

The ham and cheese sandwich was good, and John hungry enough to finish it in three rapid bites. There was an apple, too, and that vanished almost as fast. Scott had brought snacks, of course, but that had been hours ago.

"Yeah. International Rescue arrived two hours before you did. They helped me patch up and top off."

The cameraman looked familiar, John noticed, accepting a thermos of tea from the guy's black-mesh equipment pack. Ordinarily, he didn't like tea, but anything cold was deeply attractive, just then. He'd have drunk liquid nitrogen.

"IR, huh? Too bad they didn't stick around," Farrell muttered. _"That_ would have made the director's cut. _International Rescue helps the Discovery Adventure Team save stranded billionaire's-son-turned-astronaut._ It could only get better if you had a life-threatening condition or a top-secret formula micro-dotted onto your flesh, somewhere. Any chance…?"

Farrell stopped talking, surprised by the astronaut's unexpectedly genuine smile. Thawed by the brief, warm expression, Tracy was actually likeable.

"No, sir. I'm sorry," he said. "No micro-dots or medical emergencies. Just your everyday, average survival tale… but I hear things are more exciting over at Kennedy. They've got a tribe of rescued cannibals raising all kinds of hell, up there."

The scientist/ showman clapped John's shoulder with a friendly hand, like Pete sometimes did, or Scott.

"Damn. And us without season passes! You're a piece of work, John. Ever thought about your own show? Something space-based, maybe? Listen, I'd like to introduce Mariska Shay, Karen Parker, and Larry Howard… And this is our new cameraman, Shane Poston. He joined us recently from the _Survival_ film crew."

_Now_ John recognized the guy, who looked a little different without all the ash. Fewer bruises, more tattoos. _Shit_. No, wait… Poston hadn't said anything, so maybe un-shit. Or deferred-shit, at least.

Numbly, on some kind of mental autopilot, John said hello and shook hands all around. Seriously, what were the odds that a former rescue subject would turn up so soon, in a position to finger his illegal Samaritan? For something to do besides worry about a looming on-camera reveal, John finished the galley's care package and led Farrell's crew past a stand of hulking trees to the still-cooling airstrip. At least the smell had died down. The Gulfstream was already turned around, fueled up and ready to roll, once she could do so without bogging down in soft tar.

"So, what went wrong?" Farrell inquired when they'd got the camera set up, again. The shot was positioned so that John had a picaresque backdrop of ruined buildings and dense jungle, with wind ruffling his blond hair and white shirt. "How'd you end up hundreds of miles off course, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, John?"

Easy one. He'd rehearsed this over the phone with Taylor.

"Good question, Mr. Cummings. It looks like my GPS and onboard computer picked up a virus on the way home from Darwin. Someone hacked a navigation satellite to release their new little trouble-maker, would be my guess. Just happened to coincide with a bout of rough weather. I lost telemetry, wandered off-course and put down on the nearest patch of dry land, safe enough but out of contact, thanks to that virus."

(Which he'd quickly coded up himself, then retroactively installed to the Gulfstream's onboard system and a couple of nav-sats, just in case somebody wanted to check. The crippled version, that is.)

"So, with fuel from International Rescue and a new GPS unit… courtesy of the Discovery Adventure Team… you'll be on your way home soon, John?"

Farrell was looking for a good, popcorn-friendly lead-in to his crew's real purpose: the dramatically dangerous coverage of an island's violent birth. He wanted heroism and cooperation, not controversy.

"Eventually," John told him, remembering to smile. "I need to touch base with Houston, first, and get my flight status cleared up." Because, sure as hell, they'd red-stamped him. "But, um… I'd like to thank you and International Rescue, and everyone else who took time out to look for me. On behalf of myself and my family, I'd like to pledge Tracy Aerospace's help in defraying the costs incurred by any search teams and private citizens involved in this rescue effort."

Shane Poston gave him a quick thumbs-up from behind the camera, so maybe that was the right thing to say. Farrell seemed to approve, as well. He asked a few more questions, and then staged a handful of close-up reaction shots, which John yielded to like a plastic action figure. Where to stand, what head position, and how-quick-can-we-get-this-over-with was all that he cared about. Places to go, people to see, female flight surgeons to deal with, et cetera. About 65,536 permutations in all, including a quickly-thrust IR response card from Shane Poston; who'd scrawled his number, address and full name on the back. Well… a trustworthy new operative could be useful, especially one with media links and no public Tracy entanglements. So thinking, John quietly pocketed the card.

He was a working astronaut, hardly famous for much besides the family name. Just a lunar shuttle pilot and sometime space station crewman with a job to protect. Needless to say, impatient or not, he gave the Discovery Adventure Team his full cooperation.

They explored the ruins together on camera, John providing laconic narration. Never mentioned that weird, tossed away gemstone, though. They'd have thought he was crazy, and he'd have wound up with one of those dreaded "We regret to inform you…" letters from NASA. Nope. No strange, evil jewelry here. Just rust, ruins and wreckage.

Even his takeoff was staged, once a gathering plague of foreign news crews and curiosity-seekers cleared the skies. He didn't yet need to head west, but flying into the sunset was cinematically desirable, it seemed. So the astronaut shook hands, accepted luck kisses from the two females, and did what Farrell wanted, waiting until he was well out of camera range to correct his course. Pain in the ass, although the new contacts held promise, much like that one-dollar "you win" note from his father.

Banking sharply southward in a repaired aircraft, with Thunderbird 1 flying invisibly high escort, John had to admit that sometimes, life was okay. People came and went, things changed, but every once in awhile the wind blew your way and numbers converged to an answer, just like a well-reasoned algorithm. A man couldn't ask more than that, could he?

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_Tracy Island, in the spacious, garden-themed main TV room-_

It would have been a tiny little news-burp, except for the name. Belaghant? As in… the _Hood_ Belaghant? TinTin's psychotic uncle and threatener of innocent girls, in general? The Tracy family's personal nemesis, Belaghant? Dead, just like that, of unknown causes at the Royal Darwin Airport…

"Huh!" Grandma snorted, still in her two silver plaits, blue slippers and oversized plaid bathrobe. "Couldn't a happened to a nicer guy, you ask me."

The general reaction was puzzled relief, except from Alan. _He_ jumped up to bound every which way and stab his pointing finger at the giant TV screen, crowing,

"Oooh…! _Epic fail!_ Say hello to your fellow dead losers, Captain Crunch! _Hah_!"

But grandma silenced him with a fierce glare and prodding cane, having little patience for foolish displays. After all, they hadn't dealt with the Hood themselves, and he tended _not_ to stay dearly departed.

Gordon and Virgil seemed a little crestfallen, actually, as though both of them would have welcomed a fight. Speaking of which, Gordon hadn't said anything to Alan about the way he'd blown the whistle on the swimmer's dumb plan… but maybe the fact that Virgil never reported the matter further kept Gordon's temper in check. Or else the aquanaut hadn't woken up enough to get good and real mad, yet.

Anyhow, the family watched with interest as early scenes of John's discovery and interview were broadcast around the globe.

"He's lookin' awful thin!" Grandma snapped, peering at John on the nearly wall-sized television.

Virgil mashed out a cigarette and sauntered over to pat the frail shoulder beneath Granddad's old, cut-down robe.

"It's okay, grandma. John's _always_ been about three inches wide. I don't think mom even had to push."

Victoria Tracy blinked up at the tall young man. In his work shirt, jeans and bare feet, Virgil resembled a lounging ranch hand.

"She pushed, Teddy," Grandma corrected him. "For about eight minutes. Shortest labor I ever seen. _You_ had to be induced, lazy thing. Scott Aaron took all day and into the night. Red, here, come out backward, and he's been confused ever since. I weren't there for the baby…"

(Alan hated it like capers, pistachios and going to school, when she called him that!)

"…But I hear he was early, real little and mad as hell on account a havin' his nice, warm nap disrupted."

Great. Alan tried very hard to sink like spilled soda into the couch, feeling like he was about to implode in a red-hot burst of shame and gelled hair. Gordon grinned at him, so Alan chucked a couch pillow, which his brother snagged from the air and sent hurtling back. One of the gold tassels caught him across the nose, which hurt. For _real_.

All at once, Alan couldn't wait for Gordon to head back to Madrid and the swim team, despite what his absence would do to their game scenario. Gordon Tracy wasn't the _only_ has-been ex-paladin in the world, after all, and maybe Virgil would be willing to play, if Alan paid him, or something.

"Anyhow, John Matthew looks thinner than natural to me," Grandma fussed, just as though stuffed, fringe-y missiles weren't flying across the room, from one couch to the other.

"I'm sure he's fine," Gennine said to her, after giving Alan a last, beseeching glance. "His chakras appear well-aligned, even allowing for distance and lens distortion, mother."

But grandma continued to fret, despite her former daughter-in-law's soothing words.

"Hope he ain't been skippin' meals again. That boy's so distracted sometimes, it's a wonder he thinks to breathe."

Not this time, though. Maybe the super-sized, sun-burnt image of John didn't look exactly _comfortable_ speaking on camera, but he didn't freeze up or wander off muttering, either. Just promised away tons of dad's cash. Visualizing fireworks to come, Alan had to applaud his older brother's kind generosity. For real, what a guy.

TinTin ducked in briefly with a rattling cartload of coffee and muffins (all she could fix up in a hurry). Then she darted off to rejoin Brains, Fermat and her father, down at the infirmary, pausing just long enough to give the boys a shy smile. Virgil smiled back and mussed her black hair, but Gordon was too busy tightening his shoe laces to notice. Hmm… something else to file away for future consideration.

The muffins were awesome, still warm and dotted inside with bits of gooey dark chocolate. Alan wolfed down half a dozen, all the while watching his brother's televised takeoff, and plotting their next game session. So much mischief to wreak… so little time…

And perhaps, in another realm, things began to shift, and fates to change.


	80. 80: Power Source

Another turning point is reached. Slightly still more re-edited. Thanks, Panoply, Tikatu, Mitzy and Eternal Density. :)

**80: Power Source**

Lately, he'd begun to dream in wireframe and code, with error messages wrapped up in tangled mist and fragments of childhood memory. Not good. In fact, damned awkward, when you had a fine-toothed physical and psych eval coming up, tornado-quick. He could fake his way through them, probably; Pete had taught him a few useful tricks… but it sucked to be dreaming about one of his older brother's Kansas little league games and then have the whole thing devolve into an oddly-phrased search request.

Time had passed, and John's plans had changed. After a few strained public appearances in Manila, he'd headed home for exasperated lectures, crushing hugs and over-feeding. Grandma, especially, had had a lot to say (much of it profane). But she apparently loved him, and people said weird, off-beat things when that was the case. Even, sometimes, Penelope. Virgil was less emotional, merely rolling his brown eyes and shaking the grimly resigned astronaut like a chew toy, somewhat raising the suckiness quotient.

Gordon asked not to be sent on any more pizza missions, which was fine by John, who'd never received his order, anyhow. He didn't ask for the money back, though, because both pools hadn't been fixed yet, and fair is fair. Alan stayed on the fringes of things, looking like he wanted to talk, maybe. Hard to say. John had never been good at reading expressions and so-called "body language". Swahili, sure. Mandarin, whenever you wanted. But eyebrows scrunched, rubbing at lower jaw, head tilted slightly to the left…? _Je n' entends pas._ Whatever. If it was important, his youngest brother would find a way to bring the matter up. Probably just game-related, anyhow. Unlike Cindy Taylor, who wanted her interview, and wasn't particularly subtle about telling him so.

A few other things stood out. Surprisingly, his dad was less concerned by John's cavalier funding promises to all of those scattered rescue teams than he'd anticipated. More interested in how and why his son's flight had gone wrong, and whether the Hood's death… and now Cleeves'… meant that something worse was out there, patiently gathering strength. They needed to find out because, under the circumstances, the Tracys hadn't much faith that the enemy of their enemy was anything at all but malevolent.

Serious problems, which John and Brains intended to help solve, once the astronaut was through smoothing NASA over. At least, that's why _he_ thought he was going to Houston; that nagging internal ping, the one demanding further data on JPL's latest meteorite acquisition, said otherwise.

If Thunderbird 1's memory files were to be trusted, the Antarctic meteorite was staggeringly powerful and nearly impossible to shield. Once all the "welcome back" nonsense subsided, he'd sat down alone in Scott's Bird (think leather seats, aftershave, spearmint chewing gum and stress). Then he plugged in one of his password-circumvention gadgets and opened the onboard system's data files, quick as thought and a couple of keystrokes. That done, John gazed at the main view screen for something like forty minutes, as ASCII text rained down like alphanumeric Tetris, beautifully stark and informative. After a bit he began to refine and filter the teraflops of cascading data, prompted to research something very specific. _Huh._

AS7650. Hell of a space rock, that meteorite… and very much dangerous. In the right hands, it could power most of a continent. In the wrong ones, leave nothing at all of California's Jet Propulsion Laboratory but a wide, smoking crater. Energies rising into the yottawatt region, at least. Nice.

No wonder something… (His computer?) …was interested in learning more. Here was a chunk of rock capable, to put it in Russian terms, of showing them Kuzka's Mother, in her bloomers, headscarf and bathrobe.

There was a screen within him waiting to light up; a tightly shut file flashing the need to be accessed, but John wouldn't do it. He'd long ago learned better.

Instead, sitting there in Thunderbird 1's dimly-lit cockpit, the astronaut bargained. _For reasons of his own,_ he'd stop off in California before reaching Texas. _Because he was genuinely interested,_ he and Penny would quietly poke around the secure high-energy containment lab. _Not_ because something that sparked at his wrist and burned in his mind had asked him to.

John didn't much like spearmint, but he unwrapped and chewed one of Scott's gum sticks, anyway. It gave him something physical to do as that torrent of horrible numbers shot past.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Midworld, well north of the civilized lands-_

They took their leave of Dame Samara with genuine regret. Glud's mother had proven quite helpful, and decent enough, for a witch. Her sons were half-wild and her cooking style dramatically smoky, but she'd allowed them to rest and re-provision, providing advice all the while.

"Recall, Sir Knight," she told Gawain, two days after his return from Falkirk, "that your vision specifically showed you five gems. Look well for any stones of power you may encounter along the way."

Gawain led George out of the fire-lit cavern as she said this to him, through the oaken-beam doors and into the frozen yard. The sky overhead sagged like grey, dirty wool, promising snow by the buckets. The wind's edge was serrated with blowing ice. It numbed his face and hands in a few short heartbeats, misting the horse's breath, and his own.

Allat had turned into something puffy and weather-proof, but Frodle was pink as a drunken lord; rubbing his hands and stamping. Gawain had no idea where Drehn had got off to, but the elf had a way of vanishing, suddenly. He'd return when he wished, like a straying cat.

Glud was out in the midst of the courtyard with his brothers, shouting, laughing and breaking the odd bone or two. He was a quick healer, fortunately, as Gawain had little left in him but good wishes for a speedy recovery. (And a standing promise to wrestle Voreig, upon their return.)

"Stones of power?" he questioned the witch, leading his horse with one hand pressed to the animal's proud, arching neck. Samara nodded.

"Aye. Anything at all that stands out, or comes to you by unusual means. Watch, and be ready."

Gawain thought of the emerald; a Nymph's gift that he'd given away to Anelle. There was one, maybe. Unthinkingly, his left hand went to the resuscitated sword in its new scabbard of gold-chased leather. Was there not a large opal, formed by magic, in the hilt? Number two, possibly? Before he could speculate aloud, Samara fed a tuft of conjured grasses to George, muttering,

"I can't help thinking about that binding gem, the one I prisoned _her_ messenger in. Where did the elf cast it, I wonder?"

"Well away from the house, he told me," Gawain responded, shifting position a bit in the chilly yard. Already, the early-morning cold was seeping through his cloak and stout boots. "Though not beyond retrieval, I'd wager. Does such a cursed thing truly belong in a token of faerie, goodwitch?"

"I can't say, Sir Knight. I'd never heard that our faerie "protectors" were outstandingly good… just powerful and even-handed. At any rate, look well. Five gems should come to you, through seeming happenstance. Be prepared to gather and use them, once you've found the sky metal."

She shivered; wind-whipped and thinly-clad, her tangled blonde hair streaming like honey. Impulsively, Gawain reached for one scratched and ink-mottled hand, took up and kissed it. The world was a different place, seen through less light-blinded eyes. Gawain-now liked the witch. Gawain-before would scarce have been able to stand her.

"You have my thanks, Dame Samara," he said. "And, should the need arise, my service, as well."

The orc-wife laughed, showing strong, slightly sharp teeth.

"What have matters come to," she teased, "when a Paladin of the Cross offers his sword and his aid to a simple marsh-witch?"

She'd meant the comment as a fond joke, but Gawain was troubled, nonetheless. While Frodle spelled a last few parcels onto Dapple and cinched the lot tight, the red-haired young man released her hand and stepped back a bit. For what felt like a hundredth weary time, he said,

"I am no more a paladin, Dame Samara. The offer comes only from me, not from that which I served."

Still a difficult subject, apt at times to bring panic and deep, fiery shame, though many days had passed. Reaching out through the biting air, Samara took hold of his new surcoat. Morcar's red and black, it was… or had been. Seemingly overnight, the heavy cloth had gained threads of stone grey, watery blue, flickering orange and a subtle, shifting non-color, all interweaving the Sword and Raven.

"Very well," said the witch, as she rubbed dense, heavy wool between her fingers. "Protest if you must. But you are no common warrior, for all that."

Looking up at him, she continued,

"Has it not occurred to you, Sir Gawain, that one chosen young has no true say in the matter of his own calling? And that he cannot come to full strength and assurance until given the chance to stray and return?"

Gawain didn't know what to say to this, or to the altered surcoat, either; how to respond, what to do. _Return…?_ As Ravencall and Kent had suggested… penitent, chastened and alone? After Lord Morcar had risked war with Lot to offer him shelter? After Midworld had chosen to help him?

George stamped a big fore-hoof and shook his gold mane, recalling the knight to practical matters such as wind, coming snow and a long ride north.

"I shall watch f'r gems of power," he promised the witch, just before setting a foot in the stirrup and swinging himself into the saddle; leather creaking, new mail clashing and bunching uncomfortably. There hadn't been time for well-measured armour. He'd had to make do with another's. _Return…?_

No. Gawain could not abandon his quest in the weak hope that his former brotherhood would relent. They were perfect; gleaming distant and white as mountaintop snow. He had fallen from their sphere, forever. A broken and smudged thing. A friend of orc-wives and dark elves.

Yet, Sir Gawain had a great deal to think about as the party at last started northward. Still more when Drehn rejoined them, a few miles further, with Voreig loping along beside him.


	81. 81: Convolutions

Not so late, nor long, this time, but I've given up predicting the end, as I never seem to be right. Newly edited.

**81: Convolutions**

_Tracy Island, just after dawn-_

Striving to maintain some semblance of journalistic independence, Cindy Taylor had chartered her _own_ flight out to Scott's distant home; taking nearly a straight shot from the lingering fog, graceful hills and bright row houses of San Francisco, to Jeff Tracy's ash-spotted tropical paradise. They'd been hard at work cleaning up and repairing, she could tell. But the place was still very much in the fixer-upper category, featuring wilted flowers, drooping leaves and vanished birds. Better than Scott had described it, though.

And the family seemed far from depressed. Being together, again, with the search for John successfully concluded, most of them apparently felt that things were starting to look up. Maybe. A little.

Scott greeted her at the cliff-side airstrip with a five-star, Oscar moment kiss; the sort of thing you kicked off your high heels and stood on tiptoe for, until it got dizzying, breathless and just a bit nibble-y. Love was a weird concept to Cindy. It had a lot to do with strength and rescue and general bigness. Her adoptive father had been tall and dark-haired, too, and he'd rescued her from hell-on-earth in a foreign orphanage. Maybe she was predisposed to love Scott… whatever that word meant besides long kisses and lots of phone contact.

At any rate, partly because of Scott and partly for her promised exclusive interview, Cindy was glad to be there. They chatted about generalities as Scott drove her up to the house, intentionally avoiding the "family business" and Belaghant's still-unexplained second death. Instead, Scott asked about her struggling potted plant, Fred.

"He's got a couple of new leaves, thanks to Melinda's miracle brew. Not so brown at the edges anymore, either."

The condition of her plant, the sole 'pet' Cindy laid claim to, was something of a joke between them.

"You should've brought him along," said Scott, turning his eyes from the graveled road to grin at her. "A little warmth, sunshine and grandma would do him good."

"Next time," she promised, smiling back. The ride up to the house was fairly bumpy, as the path from airstrip to mansion had never been paved, and featured more hairpins than a styling salon, but Cindy enjoyed it. Even the ash-tainted air felt bracing.

"That's where Kyrano lost control last week and nearly sent us all over the edge," Scott told her, removing one hand from the wheel of his electric cart to point at a mashed tangle of broken saplings and torn branches. There was a gut-clenching drop to waving tree-tops, below.

"Wow," she breathed, craning upward in her leather seat for a better view. "Was everyone okay?"

Scott grimaced and shrugged, causing a spear of sunlight to bounce from his mirrored sunglasses.

"Mostly. Kyrano sustained a concussion. Sort of. He's better now."

And everyone knew _why_. Cindy reached over to caress Scott's bare forearm. His sleeves were rolled up and the top two buttons of his white shirt undone, giving the pilot a relaxed, man-about-Hawaii look.

"How about Gordon? Those jellyfish stings healing up?"

Scott nodded.

"Yup. With chemical debridement and cell regeneration, he won't even have scars to show off to his teammates. Alan threatened to tell the coach that the whole Darwin thing was just a publicity stunt, so I've cancelled his phone privileges, again."

"Nice kid."

"You get used to him." Or just wary.

Several minutes of crunching gravel, grey tree trunks and ash-devils later, Scott rounded the path's final bend. The house came into view, looking boxy, modernist and large. Cindy stared, but didn't say much, choosing instead to thank Scott with a kiss when he parked the jouncing cart, got out and crossed around to hand her out. He could be touchingly old-fashioned, at times; holding doors, offering his arm, carrying luggage… that kind of thing. And anyway, the house wasn't _his_ embarrassing mistake. It was Jeff's.

"Dear old dad still holding his own?" Cindy inquired, shoving stray wisps of dark hair back into their ponytail.

"Alive, well and creating new markets to corner," Scott assured her, as he went round to pull her bags (mostly sound and camera gear) from the rear of the cart. "Dad has no plans to die until he finds a way to take it all with him. He's gonna live forever, Hon, trust me."

The reporter smiled, coming over to help Scott with the autocam case, because chivalry wasn't dead, just egalitarian.

"Let me help you with that, Hollywood. It's temperamental, heavy and delicate… and the boss doesn't exactly know that I've checked out a new one."

Terrible, expensive things had happened to the last autocam, at a Mexicali soccer riot. She'd gotten some great footage, though. Scott handed the autocam over with good grace. He really was a pretty special guy, not much affected by the family's great wealth and dangerous secrets.

"Here you go," he said. "I don't want to be responsible for getting you fired again."

Cindy settled the strap over her right shoulder, where it bit into the flesh exposed by her blue tank top.

"I never get fired," she replied. "I always quit, first, and then Jake re-hires me, later. It's a WNN tradition. Look it up under: how to avoid paying for employee benefits."

"If you say so. Of course, there's always marriage and early retirement to consider."

Maybe for some women, but Cindy wasn't ready to bite. Not yet.

From the cart's recharge bay, it was a ten-minute walk up a tree lined path, through big, wrought-iron gates and then straight on, past the pool decks, to the house. The upper pool was freshly repaired and refilled, containing that red-haired human dolphin, Gordon Tracy, who interrupted his laps to vault forth and greet her.

Cindy scanned his broad chest and shoulders as the swimmer seized a towel and bounded their way. Sure enough, Gordon's flesh was hardly marked at all, except by tattooed Olympic rings and a small, Kanji "four". Otherwise, he sported yellow trunks and a wide smile.

"Miss Taylor!" (He was as energetic, friendly and polite as a well-trained retriever puppy; always had been.) "If it isn't half lovely t' see you again!"

Gordon offered a handshake, but she hugged him, instead, despite all the wet and the chlorine.

"Call me Cindy. You're not the one I'm here to skewer, so formality isn't necessary."

"Thank God f'r that," he laughed, adorably wet-haired, water-beaded and sun-burnt. "John's far better at dodgin' questions. All I c'n do is stand about lookin' foolish."

He nodded politely at Scott, who smiled back like a slightly impatient older brother, saying,

"Better finish toweling off and head up to the office, Gordon. You've got the desk in fifteen minutes. Remember?"

"Right. I'm off."

And so he was; turning away to lope across the tiled pool deck toward his folded clothes, rather awkward on land, but a fish in the water. You couldn't help liking him, and shelving all possible inquiries into gene-doping and super-athlete programs. No matter how tempting the story might be.

They bumped into Virgil next; big, relaxed and kind-hearted as ever. He was in one of the gardens, replanting Grandma Tracy's vanished flowers and vegetables. Spotting Cindy and Scott, the big young man set down his trowel and seedling tray to amble over. Wiping both hands on his jeans, Virgil, too, offered a handshake.

But Cindy had seen him beaten bloody and dragged off by the Hood's men in Macedonia, just after they'd gunned down Scott. She wouldn't stand on ceremony with this brother, either. Rather than just take his hand, the reporter embraced him, giving Virgil Tracy a good, hard "stay safe" squeeze.

"Hi there, Cowboy. Still dodging fame and fortune in the hinterlands?"

"Better believe it," he replied, bending down to kiss her cheek. "I don't mind the money so much, but I've already had all the fame I can handle, or ever want to again, trust me."

Virgil Edward Tracy had been quite the promising high school running back, a nationally ranked All-Star who one day just up and quit. He was better muscled even than Gordon; taller, with wavy brown hair and warm, good-humored eyes.

"Well, if you change your mind, WNN can always use another hot sports caster."

Virgil laughed, shook his head and stepped away; branch- and light-striped in the gusty new morning.

"No offense, Cindy, but _hell_ no. All I want is paint, music, wilderness and privacy, not necessarily in that order."

"Okay, then. I don't get it, Virgil, but if toiling away in abject obscurity works for you…"

He gave her ponytail an affectionate tug, saying,

"Nice thing about obscurity is, you're free to come and go. When the uniform's off, outside of Burlington, Wyoming, nobody knows who I am. Joe-Nobody, that's me."

Maybe _he_ liked things that way, but Cindy couldn't imagine it. She chose not to argue, though. Not here, and not with Virgil. Leaving him to his gardening and inexplicable peace, the reporter followed her fiancé into the house.

Her true quarry stood in the overly grand marble foyer, talking quietly with a frequent guest of the family, Lady Penelope Zara Elizabeth Creighton-Ward, MBE. Cindy knew and instinctively disliked the young noblewoman, who always became extra cold, polite and British in her presence.

Naturally… inevitably… this tweaked Cindy into high irritant mode. As the aristocrat and astronaut turned their blond heads to regard the newcomers, Taylor cooed,

"Pooky-Bear! Sweetums! How's every little thing? We still on for this afternoon, pun'kin? You know how I _love_ our… conversations."

Worse yet, Cindy walked over and gave his cheek an unexpected kiss. She couldn't help herself, despite Scott's abrupt stiffness and Penelope's slit-eyed, white-lipped wrath. Of course, John reacted only to her words, pretty much oblivious to the state of his brother and… what? Friend? Coworker? Extremely jealous employee?

"It's an interview, Taylor. Not a conversation. I've looked over the list of questions you emailed. They're okay, except for the second part of the fourth one. Family's off-limits, period. And emotional stuff's a no-go, too. Other than that, yeah. 3:30, in the library. Ready when you are."

_Awww…_ it was so cute when her marks seemed confident! She wanted to reach out and pinch John's cheek, though he probably would have dodged the renewed contact, being strange, that way. Meanwhile, Penelope's frosty dislike was as thick and palpable as Pacific fog. Cindy loved every minute of it.

"Will Miss Ward be joining us?" the reporter asked, wide-eyed and sweet as sugar pie. "I'd _really_ like to get the Canadian angle on all this."

"I am British, if you please, and have no 'angle' whatever." Tilting her finely-boned nose ever so slightly into the air, Penelope added: "Nor would I reveal one, if it existed. Having a position to safeguard, I do not allow press interviews for the common public."

"Of course! Silly me!" Cindy stifled a savage grin. "I forgot that you only do runway and print modeling for Monsieur Francoise! So much more dignified to be photographed wearing this year's take on cheese-cloth and cellophane, don't you think, Pen?"

Poor John at last sensed that things weren't going well. He looked from Penelope's white face to Cindy's wickedly smiling one, and then over at Scott, who had reached out a hand to corral his trouble-making female.

"Taylor," John said, looking like a slightly annoyed Greek god, "I'm going to be polite about this because, despite what everyone thinks, I _do_ have manners. Shut up."

See? He hadn't said: _shut the hell up._ Definitely, politer and more restrained than normal.

"I'll see you at 3:30. In the meantime, go sharpen your knife collection, or something."

Alan wandered in from the mansion's family area, started to say hello, and then had sense enough to wander back out again. Too dangerous. Not so, Jeff Tracy, who approached from the direction of the office wing, took Penelope's arm and then turned a very strained smile upon Cindy.

"Miss Taylor," he lied. "What a pleasant surprise."

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_Midworld, in a land of barren grey hills valleys and crouching hills-_

They'd resumed travel at last, headed ever northward. Somewhere before them lay the giant Ice Wall, which had been creeping steadily south with each long, bitter snow-season, swallowing ancient caverns and dwarven outposts; driving orcs, trolls and dwermer before it.

The wind never eased, and the ground grew daily more treacherous, with here and there boggy patches appearing between the sharp stones and brown moss. Overhead, the sky was dark and big-bellied as a spider's egg-sac, a combination of storm cloud and marsh gas. Beneath it, the party rode in a straggling file; Drehn scouting ahead on patient Grayling, Gawain armed and uneasy upon George. Frodle rode next, with Allat dashing about in wolfish half-form, not quite tripping up Dapple (who more than once snapped at the shape-changer with big, yellow teeth). Last of all strode the orc brothers, Glud and Voreig; the one hulking, warty and good hearted, the other almost man-like, but for his indecipherable grunting and wild eyes. Glud walked close by his younger sibling, who still longed to test himself against a crippled and unready Gawain.

Mostly, they made excellent progress despite miserable traveling conditions, stopping briefly to rest and eat, moving on just as soon as sunlight or mage-fire made riding possible. Mostly, but not altogether.

When their enemy rose up anew, it was through chaotic, shrieking winds and plummeting temperatures. One moment, the travelers were red-cheeked and shivering, huddled against the cold; in the next, they were caught in the grip of an unnaturally sudden blizzard. Between one breath and another, everything… the entire world… vanished in clawing blank whiteness.

Gawain called out many times, but no one responded, or else he could not hear them over the screaming wind. At last, the knight was forced to give up, crouching low in George's saddle, pulling his cloak tight and slackening rein to give the wise horse his head. The animal had better senses than his rider, and might succeed in snuffing out shelter. For the scattered others, Gawain could only mutter scraps of wind-snatched prayer. Naturally, disaster struck at once, separating the party to attack each one according to his deepest-hid weakness.


	82. 82: Situation

Just a little more before prepping for work. Couldn't resist (and nearly numbered it 81'). Thanks, Tikatu, Mitzy and ED, for reviewing 81.

**82: Situation**

_Midworld-_

Being magickal, the storm was capricious and very much targeted, pushing its intended victims… pinned in cells of howling, swirling ice… further away from each other. Like Sir Gawain, young Frodle crouched low on his pony's saddle, using the various packs and parcels for a windbreak as he stuttered out mage words and traced sigils in the air with stiffening hands. A glowing shield formed round him, briefly, but collapsed almost at once, crushed by the malevolent force which had trapped and attacked him.

The halfling was blinded and deafened by flying snow. He could not see the ground before him, or much at all beyond part of his saddle and Dapple's shaggy neck. The pony's gait had altered, becoming a lurching, stumbling thing, painful to experience. Frodle concentrated upon keeping warm and channeling strength into his laboring steed, which was why he failed to detect the rock-troll's spiked pitfall until too late to do anything other than tumble, gasping, within.

Allat, meanwhile, had already switched forms and switched again, hissing the words that would change him to something proof against razor-edged wind and magickal blindness. But the storm altered near quickly as he did, matching his frost-bear with blowing sand and mummifying cold; his silver dragon with a coat of flame-dousing black ice. Time for something less showy, perhaps.

As a simple, plump badger he burrowed through the snow, struggling to escape the foul weather. And at first, it seemed that Allat had succeeded. He clawed through a crust of domed ice and then dropped, altering his shape to that of a fluttering moth, then a rodent, when he sensed himself nearing the ground. As a cave-mouse, his heart hammered jerkily, while his breaths didn't pant, they whistled. Allat's whiskers fanned and his delicate ears spread wide, but he did not look around, for the cave mouse was utterly blind. Nose twitching, he sat up on his hind legs, forelimbs clutched tight to his close-furred chest. The air around him stank like a tomb and throbbed with deep magick. There was death in plenty here; old bones and fresh corpses in oddly neat, undisturbed piles. No zombies, though. That much, at least, was spared him.

The out-sized mouse attempted to make himself smaller, creeping across the dank stone floor, past arching ribs and splayed limbs, headed for a vaguely-smelt opening. He sensed light all at once, as a sudden, shifting pattern of warmth against the fur at his left side. Being terribly, insatiably curious, Allat changed forms, again. He became a ferret and then rose, serpent-like, to regard the source of that moving light, eyes bright and small as jet beads in his black, furry mask.

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Elsewhere, Glud had seized hold of Voreig. Their mother, the witch Samara, had long since extracted oaths of mutual protection from all five of her sons. Squabble and wrestle they might, but when actual danger threatened, they were called to assist one other; Samara had seen to it. Consequently, Glud's hand clenched tight about Voreig's right arm, strong as the promise with which they'd been bound.

The wind shifted constantly, confusing his senses, driving crystals of ice at his squinted blue eyes. The uneven ground tended downward here, becoming boggy and fetid beneath its layer of crackling ice. Glud forced himself onward, giving vent at intervals to a rallying bellow, in case the others were wandering nearby, similarly blinded and lost. But only Voreig responded, in the banshee-like howl that was his only utterance above a grunt.

Pushed this way and that by life-sapping winds, too cold to think, he and his brother fetched up at last against some sort of wall. Stone, probably, although Glud's hands had gone numb, and he couldn't be sure. There was an opening, however; out of the wind and into dank, waiting silence. Knowing better, having no other choice, they entered.

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In a far different place, Drehn, too, sought shelter. Like Allat, the dark elf could rely upon other than common senses. Though hearing, smell and touch were assaulted by storm winds and mage-wrought cold, he had an extended sense of what lay about him, as though his thoughts were able to spread forth and contact the rocky ground, wheezing horse and grainy, blowing snow, giving him a kind of flickery, black-and-white blind sight. But the view was not what he'd expected. Not the landscape he'd been crossing ahead of Gawain. His blind sight showed him instead a sinuous valley, high-walled and floored in deep, rusty sand.

Then, like he'd stepped through a spell, the gale simply vanished, leaving Drehn on the other side of a conjured tempest, facing four of his own hated kind. Grayling's eyes rolled back in her head, showing the whites. She began to stamp and shy, for the waiting drow smelt like brutal, horse-rending predators. Grey-skinned and pale-haired, with red eyes and a shimmering scum of magickal shielding, they were un-mounted, but heavily armed and ready for battle.

The gathered drow began to spread and sidle, meaning to attack him from four sides at once. They did not speak, nor had Drehn expected them to; not when their business with him was capture, return and lingering torment. The horse, though… Grayling troubled him. _He_ had no choice at all but to fight and die, but the mare could escape, if he just kept their hunters busy enough. They hadn't surrounded him completely yet, and Grayling might flee, if she raced along the pent storm and out of this curse-shadowed valley. As the mare was all that he had in the way of friends, just now, Drehn had no intention of seeing her butchered and eaten. Acting unexpectedly, he drew his sword and long knife, then vaulted from the saddle, just as a sharp, burning flare seared his left wrist.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Well away from his beleaguered companions, Gawain all at once felt himself transported. He left the blizzard abruptly behind to arrive in a weirdly-lit land of bone dust, cooling pyres and long barrows. Here, the wind did not howl or cry; it stirred not at all, leaving tattered banners and shattered weaponry perfectly still and unmoving. Some sort of battlefield, the place looked; spreading further than his vision in all directions except back the way he'd come. Behind him, a shrinking, snow-blocked doorway hovered in midair, all he could glimpse of Midworld.

George grumbled uneasily, shifting big fore-hooves to avoid crushing a bleached ribcage in tarnished chain mail. Grief and pain hung heavy in this twilit realm; the anguish of battles fought well and bravely, yet anyhow lost.

_Much like_ _your own looming failure_... came a terrible, whispering thought. Not his own_,_ and not unfamiliar_._

George snorted, ears twitching nervously as something… a rust-pocked helmet… rolled away from crumbling vertebrae to the warhorse's iron-shod feet. _Right, then_, Gawain decided. Back through the shrunken portal they'd go, even if he must face a raging ice-storm and scattered comrades as a fist-sized, compressed lump. He'd had enough to choking, of stippled dim skies and congealed suffering; ashes and bones and good fights gone wrong.

Converting thought to immediate action, Gawain pressed a knee into George's left side, using his legs to guide the animal so that he could ready his longsword and shield. Couldn't help glancing at the weapon, which (like Gawain) once had been more than it was. The holy symbol would have burnt like a star in this place, but the lesser gem, gift of a nymph and four elementals, merely glowed. Then, something began to flow from the jewel, spreading outward like poured greenish mist. Strange enough by itself… until the war-slashed corpses around him began to quicken and stir; rattling, creaking and chiming like an entire raised graveyard.


	83. 83: Point and Counterpoint

Thanks, Mitzy, Tikatu, ED and Panoply, for your recent reviews. I hope to manage another bit this weekend, if time and circumstance allow. Newly edited.

**83: Point and Counterpoint**

Much earlier, in that shadowy decision-time between Princeton and Houston, John Tracy had been invited to tour Kennedy Space Center, by his friend and 'uncle', Pete McCord. The short, red-haired astronaut had taken him here and there, showing off the new launch facilities and ground-based control rooms as well as a refurbished beach house and crew training area.

They'd ended up at one of the Vehicle Assembly Buildings, almost an entire world in itself. There, supported by complex machinery, bathed in brilliant lighting and swarmed by engineers, stood the massive Orion/ Ares launch system, towering above them like a deity's upraised spear.

John had seen marvels, that day. The tour was private and idiosyncratic; typical Pete McCord. But this passed wonder and plunged straight on to genuine obsession. He no longer saw the cavernous, ringing and rumbling assembly building; the scaffold of gantries and cranes, the ant-like technicians and workers. Solvent and fuel smells left his perception, along with the hissing of vents and chattering radios. All that he noticed was the giant rocket, itself: big as forever, faster than orbit, risky as hell. And beautiful. Lump-in-the-throat, _god-damn-that's amazing,_ beautiful.

Pete, looking at John rather than the rocket, began to smile, recognizing that rapt look and hands-clenched-to-the-gantry-rail, forward-leaning posture.

"You want her?" he suggested, with perfect, Svengali confidence.

Silently, not taking his gaze from the Orion/ Ares spacecraft, John nodded.

"Enough to completely change who you are? Enough to put up with all the bullshit that comes with being an astronaut candidate? Endless physical exams… constant questioning… public appearances… non-stop training… All for a snowflake's chance in hell that someday you'll get a ride?"

"I'm a pilot," John informed him stubbornly, there in the noisy-bright VAB. "I'm going to fly her, Pete, not ride."

McCord's smile converted to a broad, gap-toothed grin.

"Okay," he said. "You want to fly this bitch, let's make it happen. There's a couple of people I want you to meet. Now…"

He drew John away from the waiting rocket, putting a hand to the younger man's thin shoulder as they strode back along the ringing steel gantry.

"…Here's what you're gonna say to them, and this is how you'll act when you're introduced. Listen up, because around here, first impressions count more than you realize…"

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_Tracy Island, 3:30, the library-_

Truthfully, she meant to go easy. John was her almost-friend and near brother-in-law, not a muck-dwelling invertebrate like Jason Vann, the former host of _Survival._ Still, Cindy was first of all a reporter, and she _did_ like to play with her food.

John had dressed as she'd advised him, in a solid colored shirt that would set off his pale hair and blue eyes rather than washing them out. He wore his gold astronaut pin, as well; just prominently enough displayed, once Grandma Tracy gave his collar a quick, fierce adjustment.

"Boy, don't you tell nuthin' but the truth, and don't hesitate to say it, neither. Ain't no camera yet made a fool out'n no honest man. Not if the questions weren't meant for a trap."

As she said this, Victoria's brown eyes flashed across to regard Cindy. The reporter met her stare with a warm and reassuring smile. Small Mrs. Tracy might be, and old, as well, but she had a mother-hawk's ferocity about her grandsons that only a fool would risk crossing.

"I come in peace," Cindy joked, employing her best _'put 'em at ease'_ hostess manners. "John'll come out of this like a man who deserves to fly missions, instead of looking like Wrong-Way Tracy, the terminal screw-up. Trust me."

"Guess we ain't got much of a choice, at that," Grandma admitted, nervously smoothing her velveteen skirts. "If you weren't the one askin' him questions, someone else would be. And at least you're family."

A hint, it was, delivered with all the subtlety of an aluminum baseball bat.

"Yes, ma'am," Cindy agreed, nodding at the ferociously scowling old woman. "I'm all about family and soft, slow, easy ones even Pooky, here, can hit over the fence and into the parking lot."

John's posture changed, as he shifted mental gears from arms-folded, _let_-_grandma_-_deal_-_with_-_it_ mode to _what-the-hell-did-you-just-say?_ God, it was fun, stirring him up! Most of the time, John Tracy was beautiful, wooden and blank. Piss him off, though, and he caught his own sort of terribly dangerous fire, providing just the right mental energy for a ratings-busting exclusive.

"I don't need soft, slow or easy, Taylor," John said to her, voice low and assured. "Pitch your best, and get ready to lose."

Cindy stifled a grin, giving the astronaut a cool nod and a sweeping arm wave toward her lighting and camera set-up.

"After you, Rocket-man. Best three out of five volleys. Loser buys an over-priced meal at the Space Center, _and_ a souvenir." (She could always use another charm for her gold bracelet.)

John took his seat before a wall-sized bookcase, scarcely noticing the autocam and carefully positioned lights.

"Okay," he replied. "I'll want a cheeseburger, french-fries and beer… with a full set of pins, photos and mission patches, going all the way back to the Mercury Program. Autographed, mounted and framed, while you're at it."

Ooohh…! A challenge! Cindy hushed the gathered onlookers (Scott, Grandma, assorted brothers and… interestingly enough… Lady Penelope, but no Jeff) then took a seat across from John's. She'd be filming just him, first time around. Her own statements and reaction shots could be set up and added later, once the interview had concluded.

Cindy felt alert and excited, as she imagined a puma might, stretched out low on a tree-branch above a tall, wary elk. Figuratively speaking, she dug her claws into the wood and gathered herself to spring. The status lights were good and John about as ready as he was ever going to get, so she smiled, made a brief, false intro, and then started firing questions.

"John, thank you so much for agreeing to join us for this interview, with which we hope to answer the world's lingering questions about your recent ordeal in the Pacific."

He smiled a little, adopting a seated-relaxed posture that somebody must have taught him: leaning slightly forward, legs a little apart, wrists resting upon his knees, hands loosely clasped and gaze directed confidently at his questioner's face.

"You're welcome, Miss Taylor, although I wouldn't characterize it as an 'ordeal'. Not after what others went through, recently, in the eruption of Terra Nova, and its aftermath. All I wound up with was a touch of sunburn and a flat tire."

She chuckled and moved on, probing the first possible weak spot.

"You're very modest, John. Not a common trait among astronauts, who tend to be a highly competitive bunch. So, tell us… How's your general health, after that rough, forced night-landing?"

He shifted position somewhat, and remembered to alter his smile, going from gracious to thoughtful.

"Other than peeling skin and a little residual itching, fine. I can still complete a full PT session here in the family gymnasium, and pass the Roman Soldiers' vision test."

That one threw her.

"All right," Cindy admitted, "you got me, John. What's the Roman Soldiers' vision test, and how do you pass it?"

His smile broadened fractionally, causing the lone dimple on his left cheek to flicker into being and then vanish again.

"The very bright star at the bend of the Big Dipper's handle is actually an optical binary, Miss Taylor. Two stars: Mizar and Alcor, one on top of the other like a horse and rider. Tough to spot, and back in the days of the Roman Empire, if a man could see well enough to distinguish the two separate stars, he had enough visual acuity to make it as a legionary. I first checked at four years of age, and flew up north to look again, a few days ago. Still good to go."

"Well, I guess that settles it, then. No glasses for you."

It was like a dance, or great sex, this kind of sparring; seeking to score points without drawing actual blood. On to the next question.

"How's your nerve, John? The situation was pretty hairy for awhile there, according to NASA's previously released statements. Experiencing any flash-backs or nightmares?"

He shook his blond head.

"We're taught to take that kind of thing in stride, Miss Taylor. Naturally, you'd prefer a nominal situation; green across the board and good to go. But you learn how to handle the other kind, too. That's what keeps you alive, so long as there's time to react, and any form of strategy remaining. Gets to the point where, if necessary, given local anesthesia and the appropriate checklist, you could almost perform minor surgery on yourself."

Cindy winced.

_"Okay._ Reaching on in there with a pair of cuticle scissors and a mirror, and performing your own tonsillectomy. Got it. Thanks for the full-body shiver."

He made that noise, the smothered coughing sound that served him for a laugh.

"I was thinking about stitching a really deep gash, or cleaning up and setting my own compound fractures, actually. The tonsillectomy might require more than just willpower, Chloraseptic and a steady hand."

"Uh-huh. Leaving amateur surgery, how are your piloting skills, John? Any official worries, considering that you've been tapped to fly a Moon Base re-supply mission?"

John shook his head again, sitting back a little. Much of the rest might have been for show, but he was on very firm ground, here.

"Miss Taylor, once International Rescue and the Discovery Adventure team arranged to bring fuel, food and spare parts, I repaired the aircraft and flew her to the Philippines, then requisitioned another and flew myself home. I'm perfectly fine."

Hadn't even bummed a free ride, once the doctors in Manila gave him the all-clear. Just copped another family jet and flew back to the ol' private island. Such admirable, manly fortitude.

"Fair enough. Let's get down to the biggest question mark of the whole incident, John." Cindy leaned forward abruptly, her carefully sprayed hair barely shifting with the motion. "How did you manage to find one tiny, forgotten flyspeck of a World War II refueling station, without instruments or comm, in the middle of a violent storm?"

John hesitated briefly, before answering the question. Maybe he'd had something scripted, but decided to switch up?

"Yeah. I was already familiar with the area, because my father went down nearby on one of his training missions, twenty years ago plus or minus a few days. I, um… was following the search effort pretty closely, and I so I'd tried to come up with a few places where dad might have, um… taken refuge. If he survived ditching the capsule, that is. Fletcher's Rock… Mamao a'e… was one of the places I pegged as a possibility, back then."

John's voice and face were all at once chilly and stilled; numb and distant as a puppet's. Best to hurry with the next question, Cindy figured.

"So… looking around for your father back _then_ helped save you _now,_ is that it?"

After a second or two, John shrugged and gave his reporter-in-law a thin, brittle smile.

"Maybe. But as far as I'm concerned, International Rescue, various navies, the volunteer search crews and Discovery Adventure did most of the real work. Old memories might have put me down safely, but it was other people's generous efforts that got me home."

Cindy's answering smile was beatific, and almost entirely false. Not surprising, given all the makeup and harsh camera lights.

"Old memories that you'd stored up from an earlier near-tragedy. Would you say that your father has had a considerable influence over your life and career, then, John?"

_That_ one, she hadn't warned him about, or let him okay, first, because each interview had to include Cindy's version of a devastating right-hook, just to keep things interesting. People didn't tune in to watch patty-cake and kissy-face, after all. They tuned in to watch a good fight.

John blinked, probably thinking: _bitch._ Then, he responded; almost smoothly enough to seem natural.

"I'm glad you asked that, Miss Taylor. It gives me a chance to correct a few misapprehensions that may have cropped up, here and there. I respect and admire my father, who was among the first people… with Pete McCord, Saul Guthrie and Irina Porizkova… to return to the Moon and start up a colony, there. He's certainly a well-preserved specimen of NASA's second exploratory phase, although he chose to exit the space program soon after putting his, um… stamp on the history books. Better things to do, I suppose."

A faint smile ghosted its way across the astronaut's face. Somebody coughed a few times off-camera, just beyond that circle of predatorily-hunched lights. John ignored the noises, saying.

"I'm very much aware of my father's achievements, Miss Taylor, because they stand as a goal that I someday intend to match, and surpass. He wouldn't have it any other way, I'm sure."

Wonderful. A few general closing comments followed, but Cindy had already nailed down the good stuff. She'd edit and polish her footage, fitting in her own scenes before shooting the lot off to Jake Hall at WNN's San Francisco affiliate (world's harshest taskmaster and least-beloved boss). Only a couple of reaction shots (quizzical, amused, concerned, touched, surprised...) and the questions themselves, remained to be filmed. She'd have gotten right to work, but John had risen and turned away, seeming once more flat, depressed and withdrawn.

So, feeling responsible, Cindy got up and walked over, before the hovering family could cut in.

"Well? You okay, Pook?"

She looked up at his face, watching as John shifted focus from something completely internal, back to his noisy and bothersome surroundings.

"I hate answering questions," he told her quietly, sounding very bleak and unguarded.

"I know," Cindy replied, giving his arm an awkward pat. "But, on the bright side, it looks like I owe you some pins and a NASA Happy-Meal. Plus, this was an exclusive, John. Once my piece comes out, you won't have to sit down in front of the cameras again for quite awhile."

Maybe not… but there remained a Houston tribunal to face, including one unknown quantity of a female flight surgeon: Linda Bennett. Reporter-in-laws were one thing; _doctors,_ a whole different matter. Mere scripted bravado wouldn't get him past Bennett's sharp questions and invasive testing. No… he needed a strategy. Something new and unexpected. Naturally, John entirely failed to consider _charm_.

…But with the Discovery Adventure crew steaming into direct conflict with an undersea volcano, Congressman Shields' unwitting phone calls about to bear strange fruit, and an extra-dimensional hell missing two of its masters, no one on Tracy Island was going to be getting much think-time.


	84. 84: Ensnared

Edited and read over. Thanks Tikatu, Panoply, MitzyTN, Eternal Density, Sam1 and CrazyKids, for your reviews and PMs. Per CrazyKids, Gordon weighs 190 lbs. :)

**84: Ensnared**

_Midworld and elsewhere, in violent storm and desperate trouble-_

With the sickening stomach-lurch of falling, came Dapple's shrill screams and a tumbling avalanche of muddied snow. He dropped, tipping sideways, and crashed to the icy ground between a pair of badly rotted wooden spikes. Dapple collapsed halfway across him; the pony's shrieking, thrashing weight pinning Frodle's legs like a boulder.

Flailing hooves kicked against moldering wood as poor, pinioned Dapple struggled to free himself. Meanwhile, mud and snow continued to pour in from above, striving to silence and bury the trapped pair. Craning his neck, Frodle kept his head out of the rising sludge long enough to recall a novitiate's first respite spell. He gasped it forth in haste, lest some greater mage act to prevent him; coughing the words and scribing sigils with chilled, shaking hands.

Time halted entirely for the space of thirty fast, jerking heartbeats, freezing Dapple in mid-kick, making a solid, floating stairway from the snow-flood, and delaying their burial. For a short while, at least.

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Elsewhere, in a cavern only tangentially connected to Midworld, young Allat stared hard at the source of that light, and what he saw was quite literally enchanting. There were pictures on the cave wall, beautiful images that shifted, altered and moved; never the same, never allowing a moment's loss of attention. Lovely, beckoning pictures. They took up so much of the shape-shifter's mind that he could scarcely breathe, nor stir so much as a ferret's whisker to save himself.

There were corpses about him in every state of decay, from recent to powdering bone, yet Allat paid them no heed at all. Nor did he notice how... line by line and shade upon color... his own image was slowly being added to that long and crowded stone wall.

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In yet another place, Glud and Voreig clambered through a darksome low door, plunging away from shrieking winds and magickally generated cold, into a hillside fortress. The brothers paused just within the threshold, but death was assured, without, while the issue might at least be negotiable, inside. Besides, the others could have got there, already, and be waiting ahead with fire and ale.

Glud led the way, for he was the older and larger of Kraal and Samara's strong sons. Keeping one hand locked tight to his brother's arm, the half-orc stepped cautiously into a hall of pillared stone; dwarven work. Their smell lingered like wet rock and grey lichen, still there after many long years of decay and abandonment.

Voreig grunted, snuffing the air. He hadn't much use for dwarves, who were too clever and patient by half. They fought as a tree root does; cracking, sapping and crushing their enemy. Generally, from below. Worried, Voreig began to growl, low in his throat and softly.

"They have gone," Glud assured him, blue eyes probing through dimness to statues and walls covered in flaking gold leaf and prised, empty gem-holes. "The people of rock have left this place."

Evidently in a hurry, as one of them had traced a last message in stone, using his forefinger to scrawl sigils on the hard lintel as you or I would draw messages in cake frosting.

_'Ulat Ghat-ur,' _an orc would have read them: _seek the long rest_. But what these marks signified to a dwarf, Glud could not say. He spoke no Dwermer. Something happened, though, directly he looked upon the strange message and tried to pronounce it aloud.

He became thirsty. First, but a little; then blinding and maddeningly so, to the point that his lips blackened, and his throat grew furred inside with blisters and dust. Glud clutched, wheezing, at his neck. In torment, he turned to his brother, but Voreig was in similar straits, already sightless and limp with shock. Then, they smelt water.

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Trapped in a high-walled valley, in a place far removed from Midworld, the elf did not shrink from battle. At best, he might survive all this, saving even the terrified, plunging horse. At worst, by dying, he would prevent his own fated acts of betrayal. Not a bad risk, considering.

Light flared from his wrist as Drehn leapt to the ground. He stumbled, but recovered himself. The drow were equally surprised, and darted into the valley's deep shadows to observe this new happening. A red glow formed beside Drehn, gathering itself like mist in a hollow, taking the shape of a small copper wyvern; spark-eyed and bearing on its head a lone violet jewel (all he'd been able to preserve of a sea-elf's bright magick). A pretty construct it was. Fierce enough, but not so alarming, if one possessed the right counter-spells.

"The horse!" Drehn snapped, for his one-time kinsmen and would-be captors were closing, again. "Drive Grayling away from the fight!"

The wyvern hissed, bouncing and rattling like a kettle on the hob, but she obeyed; snapping at Grayling, forcing the mare to run off along the pent blizzard while Drehn was left with those bloodthirsty, grinning drow. They had spread well out by this time, drawing serrated blades and thin, poisoned darts. They moved almost noiselessly, hardly stirring the rusty-dank sand of the valley floor. But Drehn had no means of escape, and very little reason _not_ to die (besides what… and who… awaited his coming). Might as well hang for a cow, as a calf… and send an honor guard of slain foes plunging downward ahead of him.

He did not wait to be attacked, but leapt upon the drow inching nearest; wielding two blades, conjured fire and very faint hope.

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This realm of desperate sorrow and battle-death had lost its grim master. Now, it was beginning to stir. The greenish-pale mist from Gawain's sword spread silently, endlessly, and what it touched, it magickally raised. Out to the point where horizon met stippled sky, and beyond.

Everywhere about the knight and his warhorse, rank upon rank of wounded undead were assembling themselves. But only that; besides clambering once more to their feet, taking up the weapons and fallen standards of many lands, they did not move. The rattle and dust were fierce, however, and to a former paladin, the sight was one of sheer, neck-prickling dread.

His purpose was… had been… to heal, bless and protect. To release the dead, and defend those in genuine need. Now he was naught but an ordinary knight, without power to dispel so vast an army of swaying corpses.

George trembled, nostrils wide and head lifted, beneath him. The horse was frightened, turning eagerly toward Midworld's shrinking portal in response to Gawain's silent leg-pressure. Already, the gate had shriveled away to the size of Lady Kait's prayer book. Gawain might get a hand through, but no more. Were they to perish here, then? Be torn apart by dead things, or left alone in this place to wander and starve?

The warriors surrounding him gave no sign. They stood silent, holding their snapped weapons and trampled battle flags, or propping a worse-injured comrade. Not a breath of air stirred. Nothing but grave-dust and the slow spreading mist from his sword.

At last, the ranks parted and someone approached, borne on a litter of many crossed spears; the bones of both legs had been terribly shattered, and he could not stand, nor walk. George bugled and stamped, rearing a bit, but Gawain shushed him, whispering (as much to himself as the horse),

"Steady on, then. Nothin's happened so bad as all that, has it, lad? Perhaps they're not seekin' a fight."

The approaching corpse-lord looked to have been a king, at least, to judge by his arms and accoutrements, and the grim honours with which he was carried. Long, gore-streaked hair hung lank from his dented skull, and a great cut marred what must once have been a right noble face. A gemmed crown circled the remains of his gold-chased helm, while his ornately-stitched surcoat bore the device of a lion and hart locked in battle, their colours a faded azure, argent and black.

George sweated and shivered, desperate to fight or be gone, but something stayed Gawain's hand. Perhaps a sense that the stone in his sword, gift of Midworld, would not have raised these lost ones against him. Hesitantly, then… though it went against all he'd been taught as squire and paladin, Gawain sheathed his sword and lifted a hand in greeting.

"Peace," he said, "if that be y'r wish. I am Gawain of… well, of Falkirk, now. Sworn liegeman to Morcar, who, by Her Majesty's Grace, and God's, is Baron of Falkirk and Westmarch, Lord Ysterbrooke. At, er…" (He'd have said, _'at your service',_ had he not been addressing a badly mutilated, undead king. "…At such service as right, an' my vows, will permit."

Not that his vows much applied, any longer. They were mere words, long ago spoken by a very small child. Later repeated by an awed stripling before an altar of gleaming crystal, beside men who'd now largely disowned him. (For good reason.) But, enough! Had the vows of his order still bound him, Gawain would not have stooped to talk with the undead. He'd have summoned fire from Heaven and burnt the lot of them to curling black cinders. Yet… if a bog-witch could prove true, might these, as well, have something more in them?

The king motioned at last in return, using a stiff and slow hand sign that meant: _peace._ Then, with further palsied signs, he began to request the knight's assistance.


	85. 85: The Way Things Are

Two bits of set-up. Thanks, Tikatu and Panoply, for your reviews of 84. Replies will come soon. Meanwhile, I'm trying to balance the two storylines without favoring one above the other. Newly edited.

**85: The Way Things Are**

_Tracy Island-_

Despite his recent bad experience in Colorado, Jeff Tracy was very much a man on top of his world; respected, admired, envied. He possessed tremendous power and staggering wealth. Five sons, a genuine mission and… on a somewhat smaller scale… the latest Wall Street Journal e-prints, along with a tall scotch-and-soda.

He sat upon the western balcony of his suite at the island house (which he'd never got around to naming, a thing that most of his old money contemporaries did reflexively). A soft, only slightly-ashy wind blew in from the ocean, fanning his grey hair and white cocktail napkin, sometimes rustling the curtains behind him.

Jeff was experiencing a very rare moment of peace and quiet; just relaxing in a comfortable deck chair, watching the lingering red sunset and sipping that bitter, fizzy, soul-warming drink. Waiting for the phone to ring, too, though not much impatiently.

Jeff hadn't watched his son's second interview. He'd deliberately absented himself, because the boy tended to become nervous and withdrawn around his father, a fact that galled the elder Tracy, who valued strength, honesty and courage above all else.

Thinking of this and that, he squinted at the sunset. Sometimes, if you were patient and lucky enough, you caught a glimpse of the green flash, an atmospheric phenomenon that he never tired of watching for; something like a vivid burst of emerald neon, above the spot where the sun met its nightly death in the ocean. A transitory thing… though John had caught a picture, once, and Virgil had even painted it. Jeff regarded the sight as lucky, and whenever he could, he looked for it, just as he watched for the northern lights when visiting the Swedish branch, or his regional office in Iceland.

His astronaut son was already gone, headed for JPL and then Houston, partly on "family business", partly to settle things with NASA. The space agency was doing a manful job of downplaying certain events, but even a Tracy… secret gateway to International Rescue technology… had to maintain his own mission-ready flight status. That, or content himself with ground duty.

As Jeff took another drink, holding the fiery scotch-blend in his mouth for a bit before swallowing, he thought of what Penny had told him. How, pointedly needled by that annoying wasp of a future reporter-in-law, John had admitted that he respected Jeff and hoped to someday match his achievements. Recalling Penelope's smiling report, the elder Tracy chuckled. Aloud, he mused,

"Figures he'd talk to a woman. I'd put good money down, that he'd never say it to _me_."

But wind and sea-roar and his phone's abrupt buzzing covered the soft-spoken words, which disappeared like the sun, without a green flash. Shrugging, Jeff set down the condensation-dewed glass, wiped his hand on his shirt, and picked up the cell phone, which lay rattling against the chair-side tabletop like a trapped dragonfly. Then a swift finger tap lit up the screen and caller ID feature. Leisha Bonaventure it was, his chief attorney and official "fixer".

"Tracy, here. Go ahead."

_"Good morning, Mr. Tracy."_ Her words were clipped and authoritative, her image alert and unsmiling, dressed in the usual New York professional black. _"I hope I'm not disturbing you…?"_

"Not at all. Whatever the news, I need to hear it before anyone else does, night or day, in any situation. Fire away, Ms. Bonaventure."

She nodded, looking slim, chic and severe as a retired ballerina.

_"Very well then, sir. I have three items to report. Firstly, this Poston checks out entirely clean, despite his rough appearance and employment with the entertainment industry. A few fistfights and one suspension in high school, but nothing else, since. Second: for love, money or threats, there's been no ferreting out the identity of your one-dollar real estate salesman. Whoever he is, he's transferred title anonymously, through a stack of dummy organizations, and then covered his tracks like a cat burglar." _

Bonaventure shook her sleekly pony-tailed head, clearly troubled.

_"No one's talking, or knows anyone who __will__ talk, and the so-called agents who handled the deal with your son have simply vanished. They seem to have been a computer-generated front all along, sir, but tracking them leads nowhere, and your dollar could have been tucked in a sequined g-string or a church collection plate, for all I can tell. Such small change is nearly impossible to trace."_

Jeff shifted in his seat, crinkling the blue-striped upholstery.

"Somebody bought that island from France," he growled.

_"Yes, Mr. Tracy… and the Sovereign Republic of France would evidently like to continue doing business with him, whoever he is. They've got nothing to say, and no public record of the transaction. If you like, I could place a few spooks on the case…"_

…Meaning Lady Penelope, or one of International Rescue's lesser secret operatives. But Jeff was reluctant to commit valuable man-hours to what was, essentially, a foolish, testosterone-laden, grudge match. Still…

"You've tried asking John?" suggested the stone-turning former astronaut.

Bonaventure hesitated. The phone line was Tracy Aerospace-secure, but not IR-transmission approved. Discussing whether Mr. Tracy wanted John put on the case as an operative seemed unacceptably risky, so she chose to interpret his question another, safer, way.

_"Your son continues to maintain that the identity of the seller is completely hidden, sir. He told me the man is all but untraceable."_

Jeff sighed and then nodded, glancing past the small figure of Leisha Bonaventure to the tiny view of Manhattan that gleamed through her office windows. Lights were flickering off in all of the tall buildings out there, as dawn began painting the sky behind them. Central Park was still shrouded, though, in shadow, mist and lamp-glow.

"Let's leave it at that for now, Ms. Bonaventure. There's no sense exhausting ourselves chasing blind leads. You had other news for me?"

She returned his nod, and then slightly shifted something on her desk. Papers or coffee, probably.

_"Yes, sir, and it relates, still, to Ile St. Martin. All at once, every power with interests in the region… including WorldGov… wants to purchase the island. My office has received dozens of offers, some of them quite generous. Only France is sitting out, presumably because they already hold so much Pacific territory… or because they know something we don't."_

Hmm… A small, out-of-the-way island he'd been goaded into purchasing for security reasons, had first been bought out from under him by an unknown sharpster, then resold to Jeff Tracy for the price of one dollar and a humbling note. Now_,_ everyone _else_ wanted the place, despite its considerable tidal wave damage, lack of population, and alarming proximity to an erupting volcano.

_What_, Jeff wondered, _is going on here?_

"Go ahead and contact Poston with a job offer, but hold off returning those real estate calls, Ms. Bonaventure," he told her, once more reaching for his scotch-and-soda. "Large profits may warm the heart, but I need more information before we start cozying up to any potential buyers. There's more to this situation than a scratch-and-dent island sale, and I want you to find out _what_, just as quick as damn well possible."

_"Yes, Mr. Tracy. I'm on it."_

…And off the phone a short while later, after promising to call within the hour with answers and options. Meanwhile, Jeff Tracy would wait, sitting there on his western balcony with half a drink, TinTin's whisked-in supper tray, and the first shy stars of the evening.

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_Defiant, approaching Terra Nova, a little before sunset-_

Farrell Cummings stood braced upon the pitching and ash-gummed deck, his big hands locked to the painted brass bow-rail. The team's new cameraman, Shane Poston, stood right beside Farrell, doing his level best to get decent footage of hell.

They were several miles from the new island yet, nosing slowly through massive swells covered with great rafts of glowing pumice and dead sea-things. Their captain had quite wisely lowered his speed, and still _Defiant's_ hull was taking a beating, her screws in constant danger of fouling.

Before them, Terra Nova continued to rumble and hiss, belching jets of ash and flame, seemingly stitched to the glowering dark clouds by forked violet lightning. Waves crashed, spat and boiled against the island's half molten shore. Winds shifted continually, carrying one moment a stench of brimstone and rotted eggs, the next an eye-watering gust of dead fish. Beautiful place, Chamber-of-Commerce conditions, Farrell joked to himself.

Others had gathered at the rail, keeping out of camera range and remaining silent, so as not to ruin the shot. And a good one it was, too… except for those fast-streaking surveillance planes. But they could always be edited out, later. Following up their missing-astronaut discovery scenes, this sequence was going to be gold, pure and simple.

…Or maybe not so simple. Maybe, downright dangerous. The ocean here was a bubbling, acidic morass, but come morning, Farrell, Shane and Mariska were going to climb into their sub and air-kiss death. Partly for the hell of it, partly for the science.


	86. 86: Grave Difficulty

Orlando visit went well. Let J-t-H do most of the talking, ate Chinese food. Freshly edited, third segment to follow, later this week. Thanks for your reviews and comments. They help me to improve.

**86: High Risk**

_Guam, just after midnight-_

Lady Penelope left Tracy Island after a suitable interval, pleading a photo-shoot for _In Style_ magazine on the shore of California. Nor did she lie (precisely) for the 'spread' indeed appeared several issues later, featuring Penelope draped in the latest high-end resort wear and attractive male models (not one of them heterosexual, or over 17 years of age).

At the moment, however, her focus was not fashion, but John. They met at a tiny airstrip… what he termed a "splash-and-go FBO"… where she transferred her luggage and accessories from the Lear piloted by Parker, to the one which held most of her heart.

All perfectly mawkish, Her Ladyship was well aware; this rushing down barely-lowered boarding stairs and across the tarmac to her tall paramour, who had just left off refueling his aeroplane and smelt rather strongly of kerosene. She met and embraced him with long repressed passion, as a rebellious schoolgirl might greet her idly waiting East-End lad.

Penny pressed herself very tightly to John, forbidding him to speak by the simple expedient of repeatedly kissing him. Mouth, neck, base of throat; despite the risk of telephoto lenses and hired paparazzi, she simply wished to lay claim, and be wanted in return.

Parker might have said something, a bit of bother about her bags and parcels, but Penelope hardly noticed. John dealt with the matter, instead, shifting position to hold her against him with one arm, while directing Parker with the other. She'd worn the star pin in her hair, again, and he noticed, touching the glittering diamonds and smiling (though not precisely at Penny). And, even though the airstrip's lights buzzed with darting insects and the night air was over-warm, though her happiness was a stolen, concealed thing, Penelope cherished it all quite fiercely. They'd a swift visit to Texas and then a week in the Greek Isles ahead of them, and she'd not have altered her plans for the king, himself.

"Ready, darling?" she whispered, reaching up to caress John's face.

All business, he frowned down at a pathetically inexpensive wristwatch (no matter; she'd purchased a twelve-thousand dollar Omega, and would present it on their first night in Corfu).

"We're running late, actually," John replied. Then, shrugging, "They'll live. It's happened before, and I can always make up the time in-flight."

She dimpled and kissed him, again, warmed by certain soft thoughts.

"Yes. Well… I would imagine that there are a great _many_ things that may be caught up, as it were, in-flight… with autopilot and sufficient tenacity."

"I'll see what I can do," he said to her, almost laughing; the sound of his voice, warmth of his angular body against hers and mingled scent of jet fuel and cologne all at once terribly dear, and achingly wonderful. Almost, she thought: _I love him._ Almost… but not quite.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Midworld-_

At the bottom of a troll's wickedly spiked pit-trap, with time briefly halted and a frozen torrent of snowy mud pouring down, Frodle fought away panic. He was no fighter, just a very young and frightened scholar. Halfway atop him, Dapple had become a twisted statue; legs kicking out, eyes white, teeth bared in mid-scream, his parcels and girth-strap caught by the spell while bursting apart.

Frodle took hold of a crumbling wooden spike with one hand, braced the other against his injured pony, and began to grunt and wriggle out from under Dapple. He had to hurry, for the respite would not last and repeated calls of…

"Gawain! Allat! Elf!"

…Fetched him nothing but mocking echoes. He won free with a few moments to spare, but his legs were numb, and they would not hold him. Worse, the respite spell had begun to fade, causing that stilled flood of soil and ice to drift downward, again. An odd sound… Dapple's low-pitched, greatly slowed shriek… next came to the halfling, who leaned forward to place his hands on the broken and bleeding animal. With barely room to move and less than a chant's worth of time, Frodle tried first a calming spell, and then a quick burst of healing and comfort. A lifting spell might have lifted them both free, but the horse would have died.

"It's all right, Dapple," he whispered tearfully, in and out of the powerful mage words. "All's well. I'm here, and... And someone will come soon, you'll see. They'll have us out in no time at all." _Please?_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Some distance away, and equally trapped, Allat the Shade grew steadily weaker. He was unable to turn away from those flickering wall-borne images. Nor did he see that a new figure was joining the rest on that smooth, bright surface. Perhaps luck was with him, though, or the smiling god of thieves and shape-changers. Whatever the reason, Allat's eyes drifted closed, all at once breaking the spell. Just like that he was free, but terribly drained; nearly lost to the magick of that cursed wall.

A terrible pressure rose up, then, bidding him open his eyes, but Allat dared not. Instead, with barely strength enough to croak out the keywords, he changed shape again, just as the tunnel wall began flexing and heaving like the flanks of an angry rock troll.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The scent of water was like trickling moonlight and poured silver. It beckoned, and Glud was utterly powerless to resist. He took hold of his fading brother and began to drag Voreig across the dusty stone gallery toward the source of that beautiful, cooling scent trail. Or, what he thought was the source. It seemed to shift and bounce like an echo, now rising from this cracked stone mask, now from that cobwebbed old fountain, always leading him farther from the doorway. Deep into dust and shadow Glud stumbled, unable to escape the command spell, unwilling to abandon his brother.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Battle was joined beneath a dim and alien sky. Drehn fought without speaking, using everything… kicked sand, unexpected leaps, fire magick and both blades… to gain and hold the advantage. Although he was outnumbered by the hunting Drow, they wished to take him alive, while the elf faced no such restriction. With sword and long knife he beat aside blade-thrusts, taking most of the poisoned darts on his cloak, or burning them away with hissed fire spells.

Here and again a point bit through, or an edge slashed across clothing and flesh, but not deeply; he moved too swiftly, reacting to the merest tensing of muscle or eye-flick that suggested a sword thrust or lunge. No conscious thought; just flowing like water or light into the briefest of openings, fighting to kill or die, but not be captured.

One of the drow went down very quickly, caught by a snarled fire spell. Another met a vicious, bisecting slash as he tried to leap down from above. A third, gravely injured, fell insensible to the rusty sand of the valley floor. Then the wyvern reappeared, and with her harrying, snapping flight and burning lances of flame, drove off the other.

Drehn looked all about himself, a little wildly. If he and four dark elves could be transported to this place, why not others? But nothing else befell him, and no one attacked. He stood in a high walled rock valley, in a place of dun skies and cold, dry air, with rusted sand for the ground, weird scents and grey rocks. A bit of wind sighed and mumbled over the top of the high canyon, while the glassy-pale wall behind him gave vent to occasional muffled howls, but that was all.

He would have whistled for Grayling and the copper wyvern, but his mouth was too dry, so Drehn took up his belt flask and drank, first. Afterward, having slaked his thirst with healing water, he gave a quick series of whistled notes, and then had a look at the fallen. Very dead, two of them, through their own fault. Another was driven off, probably forever, to judge by that sudden warmth at his wrist and the contented manner in which his returning "tattoo" wound herself back round his arm.

It was the _other_ huntsman that troubled him. The one he'd injured unto death without finishing. Dispatching the wounded was second nature to a drow warrior; doing so in _her_ name, tantamount to a sacred rite.

Grayling's hurried hoof beats came faintly to his ears as Drehn (moving sideways and cautiously) crept near for a closer look at the face of his wounded enemy and former kinsman.


	87. 87: State Vector Reduction

Because clarity is nearly always a good thing...

**87: State-Vector Reduction**

_Over the Pacific, in a high-tech, fast moving jet-_

En route to the mainland (about halfway there, in fact) strange things began taking place again in the cockpit of John Tracy's aircraft. There was no transition or buildup. Simply, one moment Penelope was seated at his right side, humming softly and fussing with her hairdo and face-paint. The next moment, she stiffened and grew eerily, almost blankly, calm; seized by an outside force.

John glanced away from his instruments and view screen, briefly. All around him the aircraft's readouts and power levels spiked and then normalized. But slanting tropical sunlight was no longer the brightest thing in the cabin. Even ambient sound… radio chatter, the engines, variously noisy instruments and vibrations… even these blended themselves to an ocean-like pulse of white static. While, there in the midst of it all, Penny (or what had seized hold of the lovely young noblewoman) sat waiting.

Well… _shit_. Her presence here fuzzed boundaries and pushed at the barriers he'd arranged to prevent himself from wreaking havoc with time and space. And, dammit, he hated pop-ups. Supposed he had no choice but to click on this one, however, since minimizing or shutting her would not make the problem go away.

"Yeah," he sighed at last, acknowledging the quantum entity's presence. "Go ahead, Five. I don't suppose you've got _good_ news?"

(He could hope, right?)

Given leave, she spoke. Her voice wasn't quite Penelope's anymore, being largely devoid of accent or inflection. Instead, Five presented herself with a comforting lack of confusing body language and hidden meaning. Much simpler, that way, for both of them.

_"There are data relevant to the continued function of John Tracy and the Tracy prototype and later versions. These data are considered sufficient in relevance to warrant review. John Tracy permits interface?"_

Did he have a choice?

"Depends. What'll happen to my plane while I'm off sorting worldlines, Five? I can't afford another public incident. Not and keep my job."

She responded promptly, requiring little more than the Planck time to process his query.

_"The file containing John Tracy's current physical manifestation and that of the Creighton-Ward shareware will experience no passage of time. No change will occur in status of __file: jet aircraft__, unless said alteration is programmed by John Tracy."_

(…who should have been smart enough to say "no", as he'd tried to do earlier with that Antarctic meteorite business.)

"Go ahead, then. Initiate interface and display the situation."

Lady Penelope's slender hand then reached forth to lightly brush against his. John at once experienced such an abrupt and wrenching shift in perspective that he would have been violently ill, had his wetware come along for the ride. In less than split seconds, the Lear jet was gone and so was Penny. For that matter, so was safe, ordinary, singular reality.

Now, John stood in the midst of a rusty-sand boulder field, beneath a pinkish-tan sky and exhausted sun. The air was cold, and slightly garbage scented. A very faint wind mewled over the landscape, weaving and brushing at him like a persistent stray cat; like Bendix had done, all those years ago. Rather incongruously, there was a wooden picnic table beside him, greyed and warped with age, and one scruffy, out-of-place, pine tree. Jersey Shore meets the Argyre Basin, somewhere in cyberverse fantasy land… Right.

Shifting focus, John noticed that he wore a NASA hardsuit, while Five stood revealed in sparkling lights and shifting field strengths; a lovely and powerful construct turned quantum intelligence. His creation and cattle-prod.

"Okay," he said to her, unlocking and removing his helmet for a better look around at cold, ferocious Mars. "What's got your chips in a bunch, this time? The multiverse about to de-cohere or something?"

Five sparked a little. Her impulse temporarily slowed a great flood of data packets which streamed to her from all directions at once, forming an infinite, electromagnetic spider's web.

"_Decoherence is not yet imminent, John Tracy. Projected diagram will now be initiated to reveal situation for immediate parsing. State-vectors calculated. State-vectors plotted to Riemann sphere. State-vectors projected."_

Mars and the Jersey Shore faded a bit. In their place, he saw an enormous, translucent sphere with equatorial points at 1, -1, i and –i, with himself and Five at the origin. Interesting enough in itself, but the Riemann sphere was further bisected by two completely orthogonal universes. One that he recognized as his own, while the other…

"Holy shit. The RPG. You're kidding me."

She was very close, now. Prettier and far warmer than Mars, or the jackknife-scarred picnic table.

"_Humor is not attempted by Five, John Tracy. No algorithm exists which allows this entity to successfully generate amusement in others."_

(Not intentionally, anyhow.)

"Well," he said, "humor isn't everything, and I've never been very good at it, either. You've just got to play to your strengths. But, um… about this RPG situation…"

Quite obviously, the game-verse actually existed, and was interfering with genuine "reality". Their once separate wave functions and vectors had begun to combine, sometimes adding, sometimes subtracting amplitude. One situation, in particular drew his attention.

Spotting a knot of unusually fast-peaking amplitude, John did a few rapid mental calculations; squaring its modulus and interpreting the state-vector. What he ended up with made _absolutely_ no sense at all. Doctor Bennett…? He was going to Mars to marry a damn _flight surgeon?_ All because of a stupid _game_?

"Okay. Let me see if I've got this straight: Alan's damn RPG represents a strengthening interface between two parallel universes, and our dice-rolls are somehow affecting actual probability in both locations?"

She touched him, much more affectionately than Mars' cold, tired wind.

"_John Tracy has correctly stated the situation. John Tracy describes and will now resolve the growing interference."_

Five's faith in him was crystal pure and one-hundred percent misplaced. As usual.

"Yeah. Go, me."

Playing for time, John sat down upon the wobbling picnic table, which still bore the scratched-in initials "J.T. + A.D.", contained in a deeply gouged, malformed heart.

"Don't suppose we could just haul them apart like a couple of tangled brushes, or… No. Not without disastrously collapsing about ten-billion wave functions."

(And possibly giving him Glud and Gawain for brothers, in place of Scott and Gordon. Nice.)

She pulsed, briefly; a softly humanoid storm of lavender sparks, with the craters and skyline of Mars shining through.

"_State-vector reduction would certainly occur, John Tracy. Data would be shifted or lost, with randomly varying amplitudes."_

"Including the distinct possibility that Tracy Island could be shifted right the hell off of Earth and into Midworld. Great. Okay, this is a tough one… give me a second to think, Five."

He looked down, tracing the splintery grain of that battered old picnic table with an armored forefinger. Wood was a fine material, enduring and orderly. He liked having it around, even on this strange cyber-ghost of a distant red planet.

"So… which universe has the most influence, ours or theirs? When Alan programs something or we make a decision, is it because we've acted independently, or are we just responding to events in the other timeline?"

Five crunched complex numbers with a quantum computer's blinding speed and accuracy. Then, she said,

"_Unconscious decisions enacted within the game scenario of Tracy 5.0 have significantly altered events within Midworld."_

"Uh-huh. So, we're on top, at the moment… but any open and deliberate attempt to change Alan's storyline would, what…? Shift the balance out of our favor?"

Five did some further modulus squaring, much faster than he could hope to.

"_There exists an 83.7171712 percent calculated probability that an informed attempt by Tracy 5.0 to consciously control otherverse events will cause such a shift. Decision/ amplitude control would then lie with the entities and AIs of Midworld."_

Not good. As in, very much double-plus bad, with "hell, no" stirred in to add fiber. The Queen of the Lost, running things, here? Or his own chaotic nightmare of an alter-ego, turning up drunk and disorderly, in time to face Doctor Bennett? _Pass._

"I have a headache," John informed Five, as he would have said, _"Looks like rain",_ or, "_I'm declaring in-flight emergency"._ Mere statement of fact, but Five adjusted something inside him, causing John's virtual head to cease its simulated throbbing.

"Thanks," he grunted, reaching out an arm to haul her companionably close. Hell of a thing, to love-hate-evade-want something so relentlessly powerful, so very much. Why couldn't it have been alcohol, say, or gambling? Quantum entity twelve-step programs just didn't exist. But whether he wanted the input or not, she was absolutely correct; the situation was grim, and required a rapid solution.

Well, as Hilbert had said:_ There is the problem. Seek its solution. You can find it by pure reason, for in mathematics, there is no ignorabimus._ And the master would not lie.

"Okay, Five. Here's the plan: as subtly as possible, I'll try to arrange my dice rolls and game choices to slant Alan's dungeon-mastering. I'll cheat like Grandma in Vegas, hopefully completing the damn quest and pushing Midworld safely away. But… the meteorite has something to do with this, too, doesn't it?" John realized, as he sat there hugging a construct, half-listening to Martian wind playing through New Jersey pine needles. "AS7650 got here from outside our reality… just like that scary-ass gemstone I found. They belong in the other universe, don't they?"

Five pulsed at him; gone all to a swirl of warm, sexy Christmas lights, tightly in sync with her creator's applications and deep functions.

"_John Tracy surmises correctly. John Tracy will parse the decision-tree regarding AS7650 and the transported gem."_

She made it sound so easy.

"They need to go back," John decided, after a moment. "I'm already planning a stop in California, to visit our meteorite, but the other matter could prove tricky. I need a _sane _excuse to return to Fletcher's Rock, a flyspeck island in the middle of goddam nowhere."

Tall order, but not impossible... if he'd maybe forgotten something there... or wanted to have it declared a world heritage site. Definite possibilities, there was more than enough to do in the meantime.

"Tell you what," John told her. "Put me back in the cockpit and give me awhile to come up with a checklist. I'll think of something while hacking my brother's game and scaring the doctor off." (_Without_ failing his psych and physicals.)

…If he remembered that Bennett's worldline was about to snare his, and if he could do anything at all to prevent it. Seriously, who in their right mind wanted round-the-clock medical surveillance? If he coughed or talked in his sleep, she'd ground him. John was sure of it, and just as sure that marrying Linda Jane Bennett was right up there with steerage-class Titanic passage or piloting _any_ version of the Fire Flash, for sheer brilliance. Yeah. No way in hell.

Meanwhile, back on the island…

Fermat Hackenbacker fell downstairs whilst carrying a load of books, and badly wrenched his left ankle. Alan sat down at about the same time to watch a _Stupid Guy Tricks _marathon on WBO. He didn't emerge for hours. Not until he fell asleep, and TinTin woke him with news of Fermat's injury.

Scott continued to struggle for some sort of balance between his father's business demands and his own independence. Was it even _possible_ to be Scott Aaron Tracy, the man, and a good corporate soldier? And which did he actually want?

Virgil, as usual, tried to soothe conflict and make everyone happy. As an artist, he craved peace and wild places. As the middle son of Jeff Tracy, he was neither famous nor especially forceful. Just rock-solid dependable. Good ol' Virge; always there when you needed him.

But as for Gordon… the swimmer's situation was about to take a most unexpected turn.


	88. 88: Release

Many thanks for earlier reviews, Sam, Mitzy, ED, Tikatu and Panoply, and for your patience with my extremely dilatory response. Interesting times, to say the least, but replies are forthcoming.

**88: Release**

_Midworld-_

In this terrible place, with nothing but dust to drink and boundless regret to feed upon, change was not possible. Only sorrow and everlasting fear for those whom their failure in battle had made captive or dead. No air stirred, and no alteration was ever visible under that stippled pale sky. Normally.

Now (as the dead king explained to Gawain through slow, halting signs) their demonic master was vanished away, and a living man had intruded upon these demesnes; with his blood, life and will, a very miracle. _Especially_ the free will, which none of the dead now possessed. Not any longer.

Sir Gawain, once of the Cross, now a reclaimed knight of uncertain device and muddled colors, bore silently through the plea of the dead-in-battle. Beneath him, George shuddered and stamped, unable to set his great hooves anywhere that did not crush bone or further mar a tattered, dropt banner. Warhorse though he was, George did not like the place. For that matter, neither did Gawain. He listened, though, despite the fact that every nerve and thew shrieked at him to fight, or be gone.

_'We are no longer bound,'_ the king explained, costly rings clattering loose on his shriveled fingers. _'But have no power to depart, unless a living man shed his blood for us, willingly.'_

Blood? Gawain considered awhile, looking all about himself at the soldiers and weaponry of uncounted lands. As a fighting man, himself, he could not help but feel the horror of their plight. To be trapped here, endlessly recalling their own acts of cowardice, treachery or hesitation; hearing only the wails and curses of those they'd left behind…

"How much blood?" he asked and signed back, after clearing his throat of breathed corpse-dust. Nasty stuff, and quite bitter.

_'The amount may be small,' _replied the dead king, as those bearing him up rattled and swayed in agreement. _'It is the intent that matters. 'By your leave and blood freely given, warrior, we may be freed.'_

Perhaps… doubtless … all that they sought was rest and oblivion. But if a handful, even, craved vengeance? Would releasing them unleash horror, not just on Midworld, but in lands unnamed, yet to come? Some of those tightly-clutched weapons were entirely foreign to him, their use and effect unfathomable. What might they do, if borne into battle once more? The risks were clear, and yet Gawain was moved to pity. He said,

"Freed t' go in peace, causin' no harm t' th' livin'?"

_'You have the oath of Svein Seafarer, Lord of the north and of Brettany. We shall depart here in peace, Sir Knight, and cause nowhere harm.'_

Gawain acknowledged the vow with a tight, distracted nod. He'd been asked for help. Had a paladin, even one fallen and disgraced, any higher calling? Wordlessly, before second thoughts could hobble action, Gawain unlaced and stripped off his armored right gauntlet. Then he drew the long, sharp knife which hung in a leather sheathe at his side. Before laying blade to flesh, however, he looked upon the dead monarch (fallen through the cowardice of a poorly-chosen vassal and his own foolish pride) and said,

"Y' seem t' be in earnest, Y'r Highness, and I'm willin' t' trust in y'r word. But should y' prove false… any of you… I vow upon sword and honor t' spend all of eternity huntin' you down."

The oath was a palpable, physical thing, crystallizing within him like grim and unyielding stone. Gawain meant every word, and was prepared to back it with his very life. Let the trapped dead-in-battle know this, and take heed.

The fallen king's face moved, as though he were attempting to smile. His withered hands sketched a flurry of rusted signs in the still, musty air.

_'You put me to mind of my own third son, Sir Knight; a lad fierce and impetuous, yet kindhearted, withal. Should any here present be foresworn, I shall join you in hunting and ending them. This is my word and my bond.'_

They were of one mind, then. For the first time since coming here, Gawain smiled a bit, nervously patting his horse.

"Should th' need arise, Y'r Highness, the assistance would be most appreciated."

…After all, only a fool turned away help in time of dire need, and his quest was not done with, yet. So, the knife's edge he pressed to the heel of his right hand, taking care not to score anything that might cripple or hinder him. Then Gawain drew the blade, swiftly and without ceremony, across his own calloused flesh, opening a line of red, stinging blood. It dripped and spattered from the wound, all that there was of moisture in this whole, awful place.

Holding forth the cut hand, Gawain clasped that of Svein Seafarer; living to dead, free to captive, powered to helpless. And, just as his sword's green mist had done, the strength and intent of his act spread very far outward, touching all of those pent here.

"Go in peace," Gawain said to them, and to Svein. "And be freed from y'r bondage."

…But stranger things happened thereafter.


	89. 89: Game of Chance

Late, as usual. Quite the busy week is my only plea. Thanks for reading and reviewing, though. I appreciate it. Freshly edited, after visiting the University of Delaware's very nice website!

**89: Game of Chance**

He ought to have searched deeper, maybe. Should have spent a little longer working out all the relevant amplitudes and probabilities, but the fully revealed cyberverse was not a safe place to be. Staring much longer into seething infinity might have driven him mad, yet he'd needed the information, and could not accept Five's suggested patch, a John Tracy "total systems upgrade". Being human was all that he knew…that, and the many dangers inherent in altering probability.

Entire timelines and populations could vanish. Fates might be shifted forever, all without leaving so much as a daydream or wistful last thought. Having blundered around the edges of all this for awhile now, John didn't want to risk any further adjustments, no matter how persistently his quantum companion ran her "ok"/ "cancel" request. Too dangerous. Something less overt, though... that he might manage.

Returning all at once to the sudden, bright warmth of a thundering aircraft and smiling blonde fashion model, John was left with little more than fading memory and a bunch of nagging compulsions. AS6750 required his immediate attention, for instance… and he also needed to call Alan about some of the game's weirder subplots, right the hell _now_. There was something about that new flight surgeon, too; something he was supposed to keep in mind about Linda Bennett. Wasn't she… weren't they…?

"Darling?" Penny's voice interrupted his thoughts, ending a mid-flight course correction. "Are you quite all right?"

"Sorry? Say again?"

John's attention shifted from his instrument panel and worries to Lady Penelope, who seemed somehow… _wrong._ Out of place, or something; like he'd woken up in somebody else's bed with a beautiful stranger. Weird, but it had been one hell of a stressful month… Year... Life.

"I simply enquired as to your well-being, John. You seemed a trifle upset, just now. Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he decided after a bit, nodding slightly. "I'm good, thanks."

He needed her out of the cockpit for a few minutes, though, because talking shop about role-playing games wasn't smart around standard-issue females (much less the high maintenance _society_ variant). They tended to roll their eyes or laugh. Fortunately, he had a ready excuse for packing her off.

"This may be quite a long flight, Penny. Why don't you head aft for a nap? I'll call you up whenever I get tired enough to need a copilot."

"Certainly, darling."

She was a beautiful sight in filtered tropical sunlight and crisp resort wear, with his diamond constellation woven through the golden strands of her hair… but strangely unsettling. Even her touch left him cold and confused, when she smiled and leaned forward to massage his tense shoulders. Not at all like the caress of an undeclared girlfriend.

"I shall retire at once to our cabin," she continued. "Should you feel inclined to join me later, do be a dear and ring first; I should like time to prepare."

"Okay," John replied over the Lear's muted engine noise. "Call first. Not a problem."

Penny smiled once more and rose from her seat. Soft fingertips trailed very lightly across John's cheek and down the back of his neck, causing him to jump a little. Thank God for the airplane, with its ten-thousand blinking, beeping excuses to break eye-contact and lean out of Penelope's reach. Not looking at her, he muttered,

"Sleep well. I'll see you later."

…When he'd maybe arrived at an answer. Or landed in California. Whichever came first.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, in the middle of an incredibly messy bedroom-_

Alan sat on the edge of his bed, fooling around with the Playstation Nano he'd pressure-borrowed from Gordon. He had a couple of new game ideas, stuff guaranteed to keep his players guessing, and even cheer Fermat up. (The poor guy had twisted his leg pretty badly falling down all those stairs; he could use a new distraction, since Scott's airplane mock-ups, Virgil's digital camera and John's silver astronaut pin would only work for so long.) _Clearly,_ it was strategy time, and Alan Tracy was just the man for the job. Fueled with cherry soda and blackened-fish tacos, he could daydream and program like a dang fiend.

There was still too much ash outside to open the patio doors, but Alan had pulled back his drapes and brightened all the windows, so at least the sun could get in. He was supposed to be packing. Really meant to, for sure… but there was just _one more thing_ to program first, and anyway his mom was too busy waving crystals and rearranging Fermat's chi to keep tabs. So clothes and school gear could wait.

Alan's butt kind of hurt from sitting so long, and his neck was getting stiff, but he kept on tapping commands because some things were more important than… y'know... personal comfort. Anyways, halfway into programming a Midworld cave-in and power struggle, he was interrupted by a phone call. Just before he hit the next key, Alan felt his hip pocket begin to vibrate, and heard the main theme from _Star Wars._ John.

(See? He had cool ring tones worked out for everybody. Scott's was the old Mighty Mouse theme song, Virgil's was Beethoven's Fifth whatsis, and Gordon had an Olympic fanfare, while Fermat's calls were introduced by the music from _Jeopardy._ And, oh yeah, TinTin's ring tone was a moldy old Beach Boys tune: _California Girls._ Not that he liked her, or anything. Not seriously.)

Anyway, yeah… the phone call. Alan fumbled his cell out of a cargo pocket and tapped the screen. John came on right away, and he was all like:

"_Alan, I'm going to be busy for awhile, so I've compiled a database of future moves and random dice rolls. Straightforward if-then stuff, mostly, with the potential for complex adaptation, if my character runs into something particularly nasty. Try not to kill the guy before I get back, please, and let's wrap up the separate challenges business."_

Uh-huh. Right. Alan frowned down at his brother's image.

"Dude," he protested, "what's with the brush off? You're not headed up immediately, are you? And there's even, like, cell phone service in Houston. I've been there, remember?"

"_Vividly. Fortunately, Stephanie just thought you were cute, and Pete has a sense of humor regarding his only daughter."_

Alan reddened, sort of embarrassed and sort of… well, the memory wasn't all _that_ bad. Not like kissing TinTin had been.

"Yeah, whatever," he said, choosing not to mention that, or the _Survival_ care package disaster, either. "You're just jealous because you don't have my amazing chick-magnet powers."

John's screen image shrugged.

"_Sure, Alan. I'm jealous. Moving right along, the decision tree's been uploaded to your mailbox, with a certain amount of stack overflow. I cleared space for it by transferring a few applications and deleting about 800 unread emails, mostly anatomical enlargement offers and "can't miss" foreign business ventures."_

"Hey!" Alan sat up so forcibly that his PS Nano fell to the clothing-and-paper-strewn floor. "Who said you could read my mail?"

His older brother replied slowly and clearly, like he was tutoring a learning-disabled, ADHD bacterium.

"_I __didn't__ read it, Alan. I just cleared a few thousand kilobytes of memory, making room for my numbers. There was no time to mail you a physical memory stick, so I picked option B and defragged your computer in the process. You can thank me later."_

Oh… heck no! Heck to the millionth power, frickin' no! No way! So maybe it _was_ all junk… it was still _his,_ and pretty much the only email he ever got! Inside, Alan Tracy was seething like a dang geyser. On the outside, he gritted his teeth and managed an eye-wateringly false smile.

"Okay… this is me being thankful, John. Seriously. There's nothing like a good de-frag to bring people together. But could you, like, _ask_ first, next time? If I swear not to forge your signature on any more pictures?"

…or feed Male Elf to a tribe of rabid yetis? Over the cell phone, John smiled back a little, looking sort of surprised.

"_Deal,"_ he said, hopefully meaning it.

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_Terra Nova, about 2 miles offshore-_

Their captain had brought _Defiant_ as close as he dared. Now… amid high swells and sharp, reeking wind… Farrell, Larry, Karen and Shane donned light protective gear and clambered from the ship's after rail to the orange submersible which bobbed and wallowed alongside.

Terra Nova crouched in the distance, a hissing monster of crumbling black-and-red stone sheathed in steam and acid seawater. Times like these, Farrell Cummings felt particularly alive; tingling to the ends of his nerves and eager to spar with disaster. Once inside the cramped little toy of a sub, he turned carefully around to offer a hand to Karen. She negotiated her cautious way down through the hatch, dropping the last few feet because Farrell was there to catch her. She, in turn, assisted Larry, who then helped Shane to lower his equipment into their heaving sub.

The team was excited; quiet in that way people get when they anticipate a good, rousing contest. Captain Murray hailed them from _Defiant _just as everyone was settling in. Being former military, he was something of a procedure-hound, a fact they normally laughed at, but which today sawed at everyone's nerves.

_"Systems check, __Hector__,"_ he called over the comm, sounding faint and tinny in that cramped and instrument-packed space.

"Everything checks out green, _Defiant,_" Farrell responded, absently scratching his mostly-dark beard. "We're ready to button up and head down, just as soon as you give the word."

_"Understand that you're ready to seal the hatch and submerge, __Hector__," _Captain Murray came back, sounding far tenser than Farrell had. _"The word is given. Proceed with extreme caution, and do not approach nearer the island than 1.5 nautical miles. The waters beyond that point are too shallow for __Defiant__, and too acidic to enable any sort ofrescue dive. I'd rather not have to train a new exploration crew, or pay for long-term therapy. Got it?"_

"Understood, _Defiant,"_ Farrell answered, pressing the comm button twice more, in lieu of a real sign off. At Farrell's brisk nod, Shane Poston contorted himself past the camera gear and scanning station, and then shinned partway up the ladder. Taking hold of the hatch cover, he pulled it shut, sealing the portal with latches and a dogging wheel; a clanging, hissing process that shut out the moaning wind and acrid spray. Other smells and sounds werenow shut fast inside what suddenly felt like a pitching, rolling tomb.

"Ready?" Farrell asked benign, balding Larry (who generally piloted _Hector_).

"Ready as I'll ever be, and twice as much as you are," Larry joked in response, something he always said before they hit the water. Or the jungle. Or the trackless, unexplored cavern.

Karen snorted rudely, then turned to give Shane a reassuring wink. He was new to all this, and didn't get all their in-jokes.

"Life sciences people," she stage-whispered. "Warped by years of exposure to formaldehyde and radioactive dyes. It's left them half-blind, mutated, sterile and… not surprisingly… depressed. Just give at the telethon, and ignore them."

Farrell's yawn, stretch and _thwack_ weren't quite accidental, but Karen knew just when to duck, and so all he did was muss her blonde hair and knock loose a camera mount, which made rather a lot of noise falling. Scraped his own knuckle, too.

"Kids, don't make me come back there!" Larry called over one shoulder, from less than a meter away. "If I have to pull this thing over, _no one_ gets volcanoice-cream!"

Scruffy, tattooed Shane began smiling after a bit, but what he actually thought of it all was anyone's guess. Maybe just that the lot of them were stark mad. Karen was rather afraid to ask.

The thought had to wait, because _Defiant's_ crane released them with a roller-coaster dip and the wild clatter of loosed cables. Larry hummed to himself and nudged the controls, causing _Hector_ to dart away from the much larger vessel. Moments later, sulfurous water rose up past their view ports, obscuring _Defiant,_ and the iron-dark, boiling sky.


	90. 90: Fear, Itself

Updates and review replies forthcoming, I promise. Please forgive a rough draft...

**90: Fear, Itself**

_Midworld, in a cold and sluggishly filling pit-_

Young Frodle's remaining life span could have been ladled out in ragged heartbeats and wild gasps. Time was returning, hand in cold hand with terror and doom. The sliding muck cascading into his prison from above had begun picking up speed, and would soon bury the trapped halfling and his injured pony. Around them, the air throbbed with strangely slowed noises and the clogging stench of blood, mud, soaked wood and ruin.

But Frodle was a scholar, one whose true power lay in the mind; in mastery of himself and of magick. He did not allow himself to panic, but reached deep within for the calming images of old Master Letterlaw and Dame Samara. Their imagined voices brought the halfling a measure of courage. After all, he hadn't lost heart when faced with a monstrous ocean sending, nor when struggling to shut a demonic gateway, and he refused to do so now, simply because he'd misplaced his companions.

Instead, heeding the faintly chanted words he heard in his mind, Frodle first healed his slow-shrieking pony, and then used a load-lifting charm to right the poor beast. A few hasty commands set Dapple back on his four sturdy hooves, atop all of that inflowing, icy muck.

"Go!" Frodle wheezed, taking hold of the pony's long tail. Dapple moved uphill as though swimming through syrup, but move he did; ascending that torrent of time-spelled slime like a spirit released from perdition. Frodle's hands slipped a little on the wiry brown hairs of his pony's tail, but he hung on long enough to reach the surface, dropping satchel and staff in the process.

Time resumed its full progress outside, leaving a chilled scholar and his wild-eyed steed alone amid frozen marshlands. Safe enough, for the moment.

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_Elsewhere, in the cave of an angry, balked presence-_

Allat had returned to a blind and burrowing form, but he could still feel hot spears of questing light sliding across his dense fur. Something had been robbed of its prey, and was fighting to recapture the fleeing meal.

He ran, not like a man, but in swift, darting rushes; seeking cover and changing direction like a mouse dodging the fierce broom of an angry farmwife. There was a way out. Allat could smell it, but dared not risk a straight run. Not while using so blind, small and feeble a form.

Subtle, low-pitched vibrations belled from the walls. Pebbles showered the cave floor, striking corpses and shape-changer, alike. Above him, Allat could feel the roof sagging and hear its deep, thrumming groan. Further tremors were communicated through the sensitive pads of his feet, giving warning when the ground split and long spears of crystal shot through like a mouthful of jumbled fangs.

Pure survival instinct kept him hurtling past the rolling bodies and sharpened skewers of quartz. That… and a pest's vivid sixth sense for sudden pressure changes.

Light blasted forth, angry-hot enough to sear the ends of his fur and raise a deal of smoke, but Allat simply dodged the beams; swarming over or wriggling beneath every obstacle until he came to a fresh-cold-wet smell and moving air. The cave mouth. The opening was blocked with stones and fallen timbers. A human man would have been trapped, but not a shape-changer. In the form of a squirming mouse, Allat the Shade squirted between slabs of gritty rock and splintering beams, scraping most of the flesh from one ear as he went.

He got out, though, his escape severing the web of dark spells which animated the place. Still in trouble, Allat switched forms with a squeaked command, leaping free of the tunnel as a blind cave mouse, then soaring from danger as a tattered griffin. Beneath him, the ground first lifted, then shuddered, split and collapsed. Soon all that remained was a wide, shallow crater, jetting great clouds of ice and corpse-dust.

Allat spiraled rapidly upward, screeching aloud for the sheer joy of survival, trailing a stream of dun feathers. The blizzard was over, and his newly returned eyes soon spotted a pony and scholar huddled for warmth in the snow, looking like they'd welcome his company. Never one to turn down an audience, Allat folded his wings and swooped in.

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Some distance away, Glud staggered through an abandoned stronghold of northern dwarves; a race cunning, implacable and grim even when centuries gone. Tormented by an awful and sorcerous thirst, he dragged his brother toward the teasing scent of fresh water. Here and there it lured him, and though he knew better, Glud could not help but pursue it, ignoring even the water skin and ale flask which hung at his side.

He roared again… a pitiful, whispering remnant of an orc's bellow… but no one responded. All that he saw were endless rows of carved pillars and locked doors rimming a great, ruined hall.

Finally he caught a new scent, which pierced the dwarves' spell just a bit. Weird and dank, it was, with something in it of demons and fear-stench. Glud followed anyhow, hauling behind him the torpid, heavy form of his brother. Face terror, or die here in agony.... Had he really a choice? Panting raggedly, Glud followed the new scent to a misty dark patch between two of the broad stone columns. Not a door, but a gateway, leading away from this cursed dwarf-warren.

Twice the half-orc stumbled and fell. Each time, he forced himself to rise again, never losing his grip upon Voreig. He collapsed through the opening rather than walked, and the change was immediate. Gone was his torturous thirst, replaced with a sudden, hackles-raised dread. Voreig waked as though shoved head-first in a snow bank, confused and angry, though he did not remain so for long. Not in a place like this. Instead, like Glud, he got to his feet and stood silently looking around.

They'd been transferred to a vast stone chamber, older by far than the dwarf halls. Its roof had fallen through in several places, and the walls were covered with skreaking, clambering bats. The ground underfoot was a heaving morass of droppings and insects. Wind keened through the broken roof and few air-slits, bringing occasional spatters of snow. Light there was, as well; from patches of greenish fungus. Light without warmth or comfort, which only served to reveal what would better have remained hidden.

His newly risen sibling grunted a question, but Glud shook his head, for they weren't quite alone. Many yards away, a dark throne of immense proportion capped a stone dais with stairs too high for orc or human legs to manage. There were no gems or carvings on the throne, which was made of some dull, unpolished substance that seemed to repel the bats.

A thin, dark-haired figure was chained to the first step of the dais. She crouched there beside a wide crevice, steeped in curling fumes. An oracle, human and female; bound by the usual geas. Glud sketched a respectful sign in the air, which his brother uncertainly copied. Voreig got the gesture wrong, though, ending on a downward slant which meant that the meeting was unwelcome. The thinly-clad oracle moved slightly in response, causing her rusted chains to scrape over unyielding stone.

"You come in vain, seekers," she whispered, dark hair obscuring a pallid, scratched face. "My master is gone."

Glud hesitated. He'd come here not for answers, but escape. Yet he did not rush off, partly because of the chained woman.

"No question," he told her, shaking his scarred head for emphasis. "We need only to learn the way back, and we will bring you with us, in payment."

Perhaps he'd expected relief and welcome, but the oracle's response to Glud's offer was outraged, instead.

"Idiot!" she snapped, shaking back long, ropey tangles of hair. Her face might once have been pretty, but was deeply marred now by pride, obsession and hunger. Only her blazing dark eyes retained a spark of beauty, and they were alight with drugged madness. "I will not abandon my master!"

Then, unexpectedly, she inhaled of the bitter fumes, and laughed.

"You claim not to have questions, half-orc… son of Kraal and Samara… but a fate and a question hovers above you, nonetheless."

The oracle's eyes narrowed. She began to weave back and forth in those clanking chains, rising very slowly to her bare feet.

"You cannot understand the forces gathered against you! Your quest is doomed, for the changeling will be found and destroyed. Who, then, will you crown? My master was not alone, you see… and the lot of you will be slain well before reaching the ice wall."

Voreig snarled and reached for his hunting knife, but Glud prevented him. The oracle spoke fiercely, but could not be held accountable for her harsh words. Perhaps, after all, she'd no choice. Forcing Voreig's hand away from the knife hilt, Glud responded boldly.

"I said no question for you, only freedom. You leave this place with us, and your master can find a new servant, or do without."

The oracle's eyes widened as Glud began moving toward the throne. First she drew back. Then, when he neared the first stair, she whispered,

"Master, defend me!"

What happened next was swift and unexpected. Rather than be freed, the woman dodged his grasp, flinging herself into the deep, jagged crevice from which those drugged vapors arose. Her chains were old, and they snapped apart against the edge of the crevice as soon as her full weight came upon them. She fell without a sound but the noise of trailing snapped chains, dropping toward nothing the brothers could understand, or wanted to.

The Hooded One's chamber faded like nightmare, then, leaving the brothers standing in the snowy wastes of Midworld. As it happened, not far at all from Allat and Frodle.

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In another place, boots crunching lightly through rusted sand, Drehn approached his fallen adversary; one hand at his sword hilt and trouble in mind. The dying one lay sprawled on the canyon floor beneath a stippled pale ribbon of sky, already unconscious. More, the concealment and defense spells which had wrapped the warrior close were all but gone, now; revealing a female drow, and a serious quandary.

Of course she outranked him. Nearly any well-blooded kinswoman _would_ have. She appeared to be slightly older than Drehn, and somewhat larger, with bronze-colored hair and a narrow face. A surprising thing to find on the surface with so few followers, though… must've set off on a whim with a handful of obedient males, he guessed, seeking the honours and prestige which would come from returning the "traitor". Very well… what was he supposed to do about his dying hunter, then?

Thinking hard, Drehn nudged her inert form with a booted foot. An ordinary drow would at least have taken trophies; some of her hair, perhaps, or a bit of armor. Judging by her own prominently displayed swatches of braided scalp and variegated chain mail, the female had many times done the same thing, and deserved no better than she'd given.

…Except that he found himself not wishing to scuttle about like a crab, decorated in bits of stolen trash. Nor did he want to kill her. Well... just letting her fade was an option. Surely her welcome would be a fine one, below. But… Gawain would not have allowed her to die, nor Frodle, either. Maybe not even Glud.

With a short sigh, muttering,

"This is going to hurt, milady, but it may keep you alive."

…He reached for the flask of healing water Gawain had earlier spelled, uncorked it, and began to pour. Silvery fluid trickled out in a shining stream, crackling down through the cold, dry air. Most evaporated before making contact with her torn flesh, but some got through. Over the resultant sharp hiss, he added,

"If it doesn't, feel free to haunt my descendants and former associates."

That was a meaningless offer, as his abandoned kin could easily beat back a ghost, and he didn't expect to survive long enough to cause any children. Sometimes, though, life could surprise even a dark elf.

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Meanwhile, a realm once ruled by the terrible spirit of war and bloodshed was going all to bits. The bodies discorporated with a long, relieved sigh, and not just the dead but the entire accursed plane crumbled like ash; the pale sky and dusty land wavering, skewing and cracking apart to reveal cold, awful darkness beyond.

The spirit wind rose to a gale much wilder than the Midworld blizzard had been, howling past Gawain and a terrified, rearing George. There were voices in it; grim, proud, bitter or shamed, mostly, though some few were grateful and provided the odd bit of counsel. The dead king was last to disintegrate. He gazed fixedly upon Gawain while the world all around them ended for good. When at last he did crumble, like a pillar of sand in a strong wind, all that remained was a stone from his jeweled helmet, hovering in midair before Gawain. The knight caught it, using the same hand he'd bloodied earlier. Then the last of the crowned skull's domain vanished away to nothingness, conquered at last by that which waits at the end of everything; cold, patient and inevitable.

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In the other realm, in a very strange place called Houston, Dr. Linda Bennett sat behind the desk of her modest office at the Johnson Space Center, paging through a docket of upcoming physical check-ups. Flight rating exams, most of them, and fairly routine. One in particular stood out, though, for its subject and possible repercussions: John Matthew Tracy, scheduled for Friday the 10th, at 3:00 sharp.

Linda pulled up the astronaut's short, classified file, read through the little information available, and began to fidget. VIPs were dangerous at the best of times. VIPs _this_ closely entwined with NASA's pride and prestige, just about career-lethal. Obviously, they'd decided to dump the toughest case on a new and untested doctor. One they wouldn't miss, if the exam and report were mishandled. Or... one they felt could be readily buffaloed. Wonderful. Now what?

It was at the absolute nadir of Linda's quandary that Pete McCord strode into her office, hardly bothering to knock at the flimsy, laminate door.

She recognized him at once, having seen a great many television shows and news reports. Up close, McCord was a force of nature, a short, brisk, sandy-haired man in late middle age; balding and gap-toothed, hardly washed out by all the fluorescent lights and beige wallboard. Linda went rigid at once, for Commander McCord held a sheaf of printouts in one hand: applications to the astronaut corps. Including, possibly, hers.

"Doctor Bennett," he called, striding up to her neatly organized desk, "How ya doing?"

…And thus began Linda's first genuine interview.


	91. 91: Scaling Infinity

Many thanks for the reviews, Panoply, ED and Tikatu. Nearing the end, here.

**91: Scaling Infinity**

_The wooded hills near La Canada Flintridge, California-_

The NASA/ Caltech Jet Propulsion Laboratories constituted a sprawling complex of testing areas, clean rooms, communications centers and high-security sample containment facilities. It was to one of the latter that John Tracy headed, once he'd landed at JPL's east-west airstrip and taxied his jet to a VIP corporate hangar (for Penny's sake, mostly; she was still gathering herself after several hours of aerial beauty sleep, and craved more pampering than he had the time or inclination to provide).

Being a badged NASA employee, a representative of Tracy Aerospace _and_ an astronaut, John had access to areas of JPL that were off limits to most of the scientific and engineering community. Better than that, though, he had a Team-X friend on the inside; Dr. Paige Carlson.

She met him beside the largest sample-containment facility, bounding across the parking lot to greet John as he pulled his car into an open visitor's spot. The day had dawned bright, dry and intensely hot. Beautiful, if you liked that sort of thing, but John's interest lay inside, with a largish chunk of really odd rock. (It fascinated Ike, too; the engineer kept texting him from Tracy Island, demanding parameters for computer simulations of AS6750).

_'Stand by',_ John replied, snapping the cell phone shut as he removed and pocketed his car keys, then slid out and slammed shut the driver's side door. He was stiff from too much sitting, and not particularly well dressed, but NASA was the land where that just didn't matter. Provided nothing too distracting was uncovered by errant breezes, who the hell cared what you wore? All the important stuff lay between cranium and maxilla, anyhow.

John squinted in the strong light, despite a pair of really cheap sunglasses. At the last minute, he put forth an arm to halt his lab-coated friend's hurtling advance. Back at Princeton, Paige had always been enthusiastic rather than graceful; a sorceress with numbers who just didn't get the real world. They embraced without too much mutual damage, exchanging hurried bits of their latest data and findings. John got a few bruises and a face full of fluffy brown hair. Paige, in turn, nearly put out an eye on his bony left shoulder. Didn't matter. She was happy to see him, anyway.

"John! You're here! I mean, physically present! I can't _wait_ to show you Big Blue, and share all the tentative probe results. The data are just _fountaining_, and I would greatly value your insight into some of our wilder theories."

He smiled a little, tightened his hug, and then stepped away from the curly-haired whirlwind. Kissing her cheek (because it felt very good to be physically reunited with an esteemed friend and colleague) he said,

"Yeah. It's good to see you, Paige. AS6750 is definitely an anomalous object, I take it?"

She linked arms with him, and then began hauling the tall astronaut across sun-blistered pavement and up to the containment building, which was squat, pale and heavily guarded.

"Anomalous hardly begins to cover it, John! This thing defies physics and rational explanation! It's putting forth so many watts of power that we could theoretically shut off the main grid and hook up to AS6750 alone… and _still_ sell wattage to Pasadena, Flintridge and Los Angeles. No wonder International Rescue was so eager to hand it over!"

Recalling Scott's near-incident in Thunderbird 1 while conveying the Antarctic meteorite to California, John nodded.

"Yeah," he agreed. "No wonder."

Paige's badge and his own semi-fame got him into the building and past many concentric layers of tight security. At the end, like his hazel-eyed engineer friend, he had to strip down, shower, get UV'd for remaining contaminants and then don a hooded white clean suit. Came out of the prep cubicle looking like something from Willy Wonka's TV transmission candy lab. Or just a really clean scientist.

Paige at once seized his gloved hands, almost bouncing with excitement. They'd both already eaten their requisite lucky peanuts, so all that remained was to head inside the sanctum sanctorum. She drew him to a sealed, negative-pressure airlock, where both submitted to retinal and voice-print scans.

"Dr. Paige E. Carlson and guest, John M. Tracy, NASA employee T-3715102-JSC, security level Alpha."

Not _Doctor_ Tracy, which still sort of stung. Damn, he needed to get his PhD! Three separate access codes later, the airlock admitted Paige and John to the presence of AS6750, a rock like no other on Earth.

"Wow," he said, as Paige clutched at his crinkly-white sleeve. "That's really something."

Damn skippy. AS6750 lay before them in a straining containment field, on a lab table composed of inert synthetic materials. It was about as long as John's forearm, with dimensions approximating those of a shoe box, but weirdly convoluted. Looking at the meteorite, you saw many more than the expected angles, and received light bounced along some dense internal manifold of packed crystals. John could not help but draw closer, wanting to dive right in and investigate. Very much wanting to touch and explore.

Beside him, Paige was as proud as though she'd given birth to the rock herself, rattling a long stream of figures relating to radiation output, estimated hyper-volume, mass and sheer coolness. Other scientists and engineers observed their approach from behind safety glass windows, but only Paige and her guest were allowed to get this close, a fact which halfway made up for his nonexistent PhD. Said Dr. Carlson, glowing like a neon Madonna in the space rock's shifting blue light,

"AS6750 is made of no material we've ever encountered, and its power output has more than tripled since we started our probes, I kid you not. I haven't slept in 48 hours, John. No time. Too busy going over the figures, crunching numbers with Macy over at CalTech, and forming a few pet theories."

She paused, then, seeming a little anxious. Maybe he was the first outside JPL to hear all this? Said John, dividing his attention between the anomalous meteorite and eagerly-waiting engineer,

"What have you come up with so far, Paige? I'm really more of a stellar-evolution and quantum physics man, but if you need someone to bounce ideas off of, I'll give it a shot."

Paige smiled, and the expression lit her freckled face more completely than AS6750 and twelve of its buddies could have managed, on a cloudless day with good seeing.

"Okay, sure. Thanks, John. Here they go, but mind you, we're talking back-of-the-envelope, cocktail napkin stuff, and not genuine experimental fact."

"Sure," he responded, smiling back. "Spherical chickens."

An old joke, but she still grinned at it.

"And cubicle bovines, with fracture planes corresponding to all the various cutlets, steaks and roasts," Paige added mischievously. John Tracy she _absolutely_ comprehended and liked; weird sense of humor and all.

"Anyhow, theory one is that AS6750 represents a fragment of matter formed in an ekpyrotic creation event. An ember of the big bang, if you will. Theory two… and these are in no particular order, as to likelihood, John… is that AS6750 is a piece of extra-dense material from the core of a hot Jupiter, maybe blasted through interstellar space by its star's supernova. You with me, so far? Good, thanks. Okay, then… theory three is just a "what if" scenario. Pure science fiction, all right?"

"Yeah," he assured her, nodding once. "Understand you're just speculating, Paige. Fire away."

She squeezed his arm again, causing the triple-thick plastic sleeve to crinkle.

"Well… what if it's a condensed piece of quasar or variable star, shot into space by gamma-ray burst or relativistic jet, and altered by a billion years of intergalactic wandering?" she suggested, gazing up at him for a much-needed second opinion. "Maybe spat out ages ago by something like Eta Carinae?"

Nudging her all-at-once silent companion, Paige pushed for a response.

"You're the expert, John. What do _you_ think?"

A little dry-mouthed, the astronaut stepped closer to AS6750, seeing further into its convoluted structure than ought to have been possible. The containment field kept the meteorite's radiation within bounds, but not all those extra dimensions. You could almost fall through it, he thought, ending up… where?

"I like what's behind door number three, Paige. For personal reasons." (Eta Carinae being a passion of his since childhood.) "…But they all sound interesting. How do you plan to test your theories?"

Paige released an anxiously pent breath and began talking at an excited, tumbling rush. John only half heard what she said. Not because the outlined experiments lacked rigor, but because he'd glanced at a nearby video monitor (white with a blizzard of static). It flashed several times, and he was suddenly jolted into a weirdly detached mental state. Tingling down to the soles of his booted feet and gloved fingertips, blond hair almost sparking beneath the white clean-hood, John began to calculate probabilities and wave-functions.

Complex numbers and energy fields shifted wildly about within his head. In response, a vast, phantom Riemann sphere rotated grandly and slowly somewhere off in the quantum cyberverse. Working madly, John figured the odds that AS6750 came from much farther away than Paige had guessed, and that it might return to its point of origin, if someone on the other end opened a way. Meanwhile, inexorably, things in his own world began to change.

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_Terra Nova, in a turbulent, sulfurous ocean-_

With spy jets screaming overhead and the World Government's avid attention, Hector slipped ever nearer to the volcanic source of a new island. Inside the noisy submersible, Larry Howard guided their progress, his touch at the controls feather-light and experienced. Almost in his lap, Karen Parks monitored Hector's water-chemistry equipment, while Shane filmed, and Farrell gave directions.

"Get us a little closer, Larry," he muttered, staring out the view port at a tall, coruscating plume of black gas. The stuff roared from a magma-fired rent in the ocean floor, so violently that they could feel its rumble through Hector's titanium-steel hull. Rattled their teeth and strained rivets, it did, but Farrell was too fixated to care.

"I want to see what's coming out of there."

Understandable, because the water around them shimmered and pulsed with pressure and heat, filled with tiny, drifting-bright flakes of…

"Gold," Karen whispered, goggling at her instruments like they'd just risen up to kiss her. "Guys, according to the water-chemistry gear, Terra Nova's vomiting tons of dissolved gold, sulfur and methane every second. The other stuff's diluting in the current, but the gold is precipitating out of solution as soon as it hits cooler water."

Indeed, in the glare of Hector's floodlights, the sea around Terra Nova resembled a glittering, shaken-up snow globe. Like Christmas in Las Vegas.

"Holy frickin' cow," Shane blurted, scratching at his sparse goatee. "No wonder those spy planes keep circling! We've found El Dorado."

Farrell nodded absently, gazing out the starboard porthole at a par-boiled and heavily gilded coral reef. At black, rippling gas plumes and swirling gold snow. Frowning in the dim red instrument light, he said,

"This is going to get ugly, folks… but secrets are the enemy of rational thought, so I say we skip the middleman and transmit what we're seeing to WNN and all local networks, _now._ Opinions? Questions, comments?"

His small crew of scientists and filmographers spoke one at a time, after hardly a second's thought.

"Yeah."

"Makes sense, Farrell."

"What's dragged into the open is less likely to get warred over," Karen agreed worriedly. "But we need to hurry, because radar's picking up something really big, headed this way, and it isn't Defiant."

Neither Karen, nor anyone else aboard ship expected what happened next. The sudden, unavoidable shift caught them entirely off-guard. Nor, when it happened, could they act to save themselves. All they could do was call for help.

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_Tracy Island-_

Gordon had boxed up his gear and was ready to leave, planning only the briefest of halts in Darwin to see Amy and Joyce before returning to the swim team in Spain. He was midway up the boarding stairs of his yellow turbo-prop (a much swifter aeroplane than it looked, thanks to Brains' incessant tinkering), bidding farewell to Alan, Virgil and Grandmother, when three things happened at once.

A sort of… vibration… passed through them all, erasing all that was, or might have been; replacing it with something other. Alan's game computer shorted out and burnt a hole clear through his pants pocket, while at the same time every alarm on the island went off together, shrilling like a chorus of banshees. Trouble, never long a stranger, had come back again.


	92. 92: Effect and Cause

Still getting used to the new system, but deeply grateful for any and all reviews. Closure is coming, but I'm honestly not sure yet, what form it will take. (Except that it probably _isn't_ the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.) Thanks, Tikatu, Sam, ED, Mitzy and Panoply for your kind and helpful comments.

**92: Effect and Cause**

When all but the merest shards of that realm had crumbled and blown away, darkness engulfed Gawain and his silently shrieking warhorse. It was a cold and measuring blackness; a void that waited, thought and prepared. He had met it before and emerged alive; had rescued its mortal form from watery death and given it shelter. But now the bleak, frozen dark seemed determined to end their contest, once and for ever.

_'I cannot be defeated,'_ she reminded him, the words more bitter-cold and sapping than any north wind which had ever screamed past the ice wall. _'The end comes, mortal. For you and for all things. Accept, and cease struggling.'_

And with that, she moved to smash him, conjuring a flood of utter, hopeless despair. He would have been lost, then, but something prevented his death; a sudden dense shroud of freed spirits, beings that lingered here in complete defiance of logic and entropy. Relative warmth returned, and with it the will to keep fighting, or run. A jagged-long rent appeared next in the darkness, smelling of marsh-weed and snow. With a tornado of ghostly forms lighting his way, Gawain shot through the wavering tear and back into Midworld, where a brisk wind and ice-blue sky seemed warm as baths and mulled wine. Welcome as kisses.

Still clutching that cracked and grimed gemstone the knight tumbled from his saddle, landing with a crunching, rattling thud in the waist-deep snow. Even George rather abruptly sat down, collapsing onto his haunches like an exhausted foal. It had been quite a long day.

Just a few miles off, beside the snowed-in remains of two badly failed traps, Allat did what he could to help Frodle. He spoke charms of comfort over the halfling's battered legs and wrenched back, but wasn't much of a mage. His spells brought warmth and a bit of numbness, but no more. Nor could Frodle do much to help himself, for he was drained nearly white from healing Dapple.

"Don't worry," Allat said to him, having thought of a much better plan, "I'll change forms again to something that burrows, and then go after your satchel, myself. There's a healing potion there somewhere, right?"

The shape-changer was already moving, but Frodle clutched at his arm, saying,

"Stay… friend Allat. Not yet. Wait for Gawain or Glud to return. Too dangerous for you, in there alone."

Allat rolled four of his newly multiplied, warrior-spotting eyestalks.

"It's a swampy hole in the ground," he grumped impatiently. "Not inhabited, even. _Mine_ was filled with unclean spirits and deathtraps, all of which I boldly fought off and evaded, unlike _you_. Sit tight, and I'll tell you all about it. First, there was this amazing picture-wall, and then…"

So on and so forth. Frodle soon stopped listening to Allat's highly-embroidered tale, wondering instead where the others were, and how they'd fared. He felt very much blinded and crippled without his staff, tome and satchel, but the snow was soft and beginning to feel rather warm, so he left the matter alone.

Allat eventually noticed Frodle's torpid silence and became alarmed. Reacting without much thought, he turned himself into a bright orange sun-beast, a well meant but disastrous notion. Their muddy snow bank exploded at once into wildly expanding steam, scalding and drenching the poor, injured scholar and his long-suffering pony. They might all have come to a bad end, then (for Allat was considering yet another warm, more absorbent, form) but Glud tramped up, munching on a handful of snow. The half-orc smelt vaguely of bats, but looked entirely normal; big as life and twice as ugly, with Voreig stalking along behind him, grunting a rhythmic song.

"Glud!" Allat yelped, terribly glad for some competent assistance.

"Well met, little ones," he greeted them, jerking a rolled blanket and ale flask off his equipment harness. He did not ask why they'd decided to create an ocean of steaming mud, but went off instead to catch the stumbling pony, leaving Voreig to manage Allat and Frodle.

Meanwhile… (Or perhaps before, or later, pocket universes having generally much altered time-flows) Drehn knelt in rusty sand by the twitching form of his captive, watching to learn if the healing water would help her, or no. The battle was quite a near thing, but Gawain had once been capable of powerful white magicks, and his spell yet lingered; even _here_, and even on such as she.

The other drow began to knit and grow whole again, though she did not regain consciousness. Drehn was faced with a new problem, then: ought he to leave her behind? Take her back? Cold, dry and lonely, with sour air and long shadows, the high-walled canyon did not encourage a very long stay. He ought to have left her, but… Curiosity kept him in place, possibly. Refusing to admit that anything so weak as _concern_ might restrain him, Drehn elected to bind her with spells and collect a trophy. Quite normal acts, and perfectly acceptable.

A broad, golden arm-ring caught his eye, although anything would have done for an excuse. He was stripping the ornament from her right arm when a transport spell brushed him, very powerful, but blundering and barely directed. He had no idea who or what lay at the other end, but the feeling was one of great need, rather than malice. Well… he'd been similarly careless himself, when throwing away that cursed binding-gem. On a whim, Drehn assisted the unknown spell-caster, only as an afterthought directing whatever was coming to the most remote place imaginable; the great northern ice wall.

Something unexpected rushed through him, then; a wave or pulse of some sort. The hurtling force rattled sand and shook boulders, and maybe did other things, as well. His adversary roused at once, spitting and cursing like a pent demon, driving away all thought of the mysterious transport spell. She struggled to rise and free herself, but Drehn's binding magicks were strong, and the bronze-haired drow was held fast.

"Release me!" she snarled, her crimson eyes slitted and glaring.

"Best not, milady," he responded with a very slight smile. "As distraught as you are, you'd most likely come to harm." He couldn't very well resist adding, "Again."

_"Coward!_ Traitor! By some trick you have rendered me senseless and bound me with magick! Dward! Azryn! Megroth! To me, my kinsmen!"

Drehn shook his head, causing icy-pale hair to curtain his face, briefly.

"They are all dead but one, and he is fled away into Midworld or the void between planes. You see before you all that remain here." Meaning himself and his horse.

The she-drow trembled violently, controlling her rage with obvious effort. Her face was quite angular and night-stalking pale, dominated by a pair of wide scarlet eyes. Like most female drow, she possessed very sharp canines, a volatile temper and not much regard for rebellious males. Drehn didn't mind; he could wait.

When his silent gaze had stretched past her bearing, she kicked at the cold, rusted sand and snapped,

"I am Pagin, sole daughter of Lady Asheel and her mate, Linoth. My mother is chief ward of the Flame and Image in cavern four."

Well, here at last was progress. Meaning to introduce himself, Drehn began to speak. Pagin cut him off before he'd managed more than a word or two, though.

"I know who you are, traitor! Did I not set forth _expressly_ to seek and return you?"

Her scarlet eyes had grown stormy with rage and confusion.

"What I do _not_ know… what passes understanding… is why you fled from the honors heaped on your cursed and unworthy head! Chosen consort to _her,_ recipient of greater strength and prowess in battle than most females, even… yet you abscond like a mortal slave with a snapped chain! By that which engulfs and consumes us, _why?"_

Drehn was silent for a very long, wind-hissing, sand-trickling moment. Then, he shrugged.

"I see the future, sometimes," he told Pagin. "Another of her gifts. I saw what was coming. I saw my own place in it, and turned away."

Tired of arguing, Drehn rose smoothly to his feet. For something to do, he caught at Grayling's loose reins and patted the wary, spooked mare.

"You see, milady… there are some few in this world who matter a great deal to me, and while I might play in the flames of life's ending, I refuse to strike the first spark. Make what you will of that."

Three unforgivable acts he was fated to perform, and by Drehn's count, two had already occurred: leaving his people and refusing _her_ bidding. Only the killing of Gawain remained, unless by some cheat or trick he could find a way out of it. In theory quite free, never had he felt so utterly trapped.

The golden arm-ring was still in Drehn's hand, and his movement finally brought this to Pagin's attention. A glance across and downward confirmed that her ornament had been taken. Struggling once more to sit up, she said,

"I would have that back, male. It is an heirloom of my cavern, handed from mother to daughter since the stars were first kindled. Return the ring, that you may live, free of my undying curse."

He laughed at her.

"Strong words, milady, from one defeated and bound like a slave."

Then he shrugged again. Releasing her bonds with an air-written sigil and keyword, Drehn tossed back the heavy gold ornament.

"…But I have more important things to do than bask in your wrath, so… _here._ Have it back, then. Like your freedom and life, my gift."

Lady Pagin shook off the last of his faded binding spells and surged to her feet. She caught the arm-ring in midair, stilling and summoning it through magick, rather than physical effort. Once again, her crimson eyes slitted like an angry cat's.

"The priestess spoke truly. You are like a rotted wound that seeks to weaken and infect all the body."

Nice. Really, though, what had he expected? Understanding? Acceptance? Lady Pagin of the fourth cavern possessed no such weakness. She was strong, fierce and beautiful, as a lion or dragon is beautiful. Knowing this, Drehn made ready to defend himself, expecting immediate attack.

None came. Instead, she paced forward with a dancer's swift grace. Just beyond arm's reach (to show that she intended no stabbing attacks) Pagin halted and said,

"Your gifts are accepted, male. As are _you,_ should one of these long nights bring you to my chamber in secret. Farewell."

A hissed spell took Pagin and her dead kinsmen out of that bleak, chilly canyon and away, but not before she leaned boldly forward and kissed him, handing back just a bit of the discomfort he'd caused her that day. Drehn stood perfectly still for several moments thereafter, gazing at the fading diamond sparkles of her transport spell.

An obvious trap, baited with soft lips and the quick, savage brush of sharp fangs. Or… did she actually mean it? Not quite sure what to think, Drehn mounted his shivering horse and spelled another way back through the wall into Midworld, where matters had subtly changed.

8


	93. 93: Superposition of States

Thanks for reading and reviewing, Panoply, ED, Mitzy, Tikatu and Boomercat. Your patience and kind suggestions have been extremely valuble, and replies are forthcoming.

**93: Superposition of States**

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men, in upstate New York-_

Fermat Hackenbacker wasn't feeling well, a situation accounted for by a wrenched back, sprained ankle, depressingly uncoated aspirin and tedious infirmary stay. Not to mention the clumsy fall that had occasioned all of this misery. The colloquialism, _"This sucks"_, and its variant _"This __really__ sucks",_ had occurred to him several times by now.

On the other hand, his mother had cancelled her evening AP physics class to sit and work at his bedside, and that made everything very much better. Myrna Loy Bremmerman might not have seemed beautiful to anyone else, but just then her presence was extraordinarily wonderful to young Fermat.

A blue curtain divided his bed and nightstand from the rest of the infirmary on one side. On the other (left) side, he had a big, mullioned second storey window to look through. There was a television mounted on the wall opposite, but Fermat ignored it, too busy watching his dark-haired mother as she graded her way through a tall stack of badly-reasoned term papers.

"You'd think," she grumbled, taking a short break from marking up Chris Springfield's essay, "they'd at least have learned the difference between momentum and force by now."

"If only," Fermat commiserated, trying not to smile. Springfield was as well known for his lackadaisical study habits as for his father's tremendous wealth. As far as Chris was concerned, if boring old physics somehow started to matter later in life, he'd saunter out and purchase a university, or something. Alan Tracy's attitude was somewhat different, but then, so was Alan.

"Honestly," Myrna sighed, rubbing her tired eyes with the fingers of one hand, "what am I supposed to make of a sentence like: _"The momentum of the inertia of the coupling constant with light raises many serious questions"_? That's so bad, it isn't even _wrong._ Just… pitiful."

This time, young Fermat couldn't help chuckling. He'd been auditing his mother's advanced placement course for fun, and his own paper had been deemed not just flawless, but insightful.

"Well… H- He's got other f- fine… qualities," Fermat assured her, hastily trying to think of some. But… no. Wealth, good looks and confidence were pretty much all there was to Christian Springfield. And in this life, who needed much else?

While he was still considering all this, the door burst open at the ward's far end, and then rapid footsteps pounded up the aisle to Fermat's alcove. Alan Tracy appeared a few seconds later; breathing hard, red-faced and grinning. In one hand, he clutched a very familiar-looking bit of stiff white paper. With the other, he shoved at the blue privacy curtain, until the heavy material retracted almost completely, rings rattling and hissing over their aluminum pole. Fortunately, there were no other patients in the infirmary that night, and Fermat was properly dressed.

"Hey! Guess what?" Alan asked loudly, bouncing in place and waving his grade report (for that's what it was).

"You passed?" Fermat ventured, squinting at the wildly bobbing card.

"Better than that!" Boasted Alan, blonder than a sun-god and every bit as radiant. "I finally worked up the guts to open my grade report and take a look (mostly 'cause Gordon checked online first, and said it was safe) _annnnnnd_… not only did I survive everything, but… (Drum roll, please) …I got a "B" in one of my classes! Okay, it was just phys-ed, but _still!_ A "_B_"! First _ever_, dude! C'mon, admit it, I totally rocked this place! The sinister forces at Wharton tried, but they just couldn't destroy Alan Tracy, Man of Knowledge!"

Myrna smiled, squared her papers and began tucking them into a big, battered leather satchel.

"So, I can expect you to enroll in my course next term, Alan?" she teased.

He blanched, and his sky-blue eyes grew dinner plate wide.

"Uh… baby steps, Dr. B, baby steps. I'm still grinding my way through _Remedial Numbers_ and _Science for Slackers,_ remember? Besides, I got looks and talent. I let Fermat, here, handle all the brainy stuff. Poor guy's gotta have _something."_

Accustomed to Alan's silliness, Myrna just shook her head. Fermat threw a cup at him and missed; spatial awareness not figuring hugely in his list of abilities, yet. (Square roots, yes. Square dance… _heck_ no.) He should have been madder about all of this, but something… some wonderful factor… more than made up for Alan's boastful prancing and his own recent injuries.

"Boys, that's enough."

His mother shouldered her bulging satchel with an aching-back sigh and slowly got to her feet.

"Fermat's muscles will never heal up, if he keeps tossing Styrofoam projectiles. And he won't receive many visitors, either." Physicists were nearly always logical.

"Good night, Ferms," she said to him, reaching over to adjust the blanket and muss his brown hair. "Sleep tight, from myself and your father, both."

He seized her hand and squeezed it, causing Myrna to smile again.

"You too, mom. Don't stay up too late grading, and be very careful crossing the quad, okay? It's been raining."

"_I'll_ escort her," Alan offered, extending a hand for the satchel. "Safe delivery guaranteed, or your help with tomorrow's homework, like, cheerfully refunded, no questions asked."

Myrna accepted readily enough, and the pair left together a few minutes later. Not before she violated every tenet of the cool code by kissing her son's forehead, though.

"Get better soon, Ferms," she told him, while at the threshold Alan Tracy drummed his fingers and sighed aloud. "These chairs are killing me faster than your friends' brilliant term papers." (And that was saying something.)

"I'll d- do my best, mom," Fermat promised, obscurely and wonderfully happy. He slept very well that night.

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_Aboard __Hector__, very close to the newly emerged island of Terra Nova-_

With a few hurried keystrokes and a cable hookup, Shane Poston was able to transfer images from his high-def camera to the submersible's comm station. Mariska Shay then hit _send_, broadcasting via underwater wireless modem to anyone at all who was listening. But almost immediately, they were jammed, balked by the large and fast-moving shadow which had zeroed in on their signal.

"Dammit!" Mariska snapped, reaching across Farrell to twist a few console knobs. "They're blocking us!"

"Still headed this way?" the boss-man inquired, taking his eyes from the round view port and rippling, sooty water.

"Afraid so, Farrell… and not to shake hands, either, would be my guess," Mariska replied. Though theoretically joking around, the archaeologist's voice was brittle with worry. She felt disoriented, too, as though some kind of massive shift had just taken place, or a giant shoe had finally dropped on their heads. Not that there was much time for such existential dread. Not with a baby volcano stropping its claws in the water nearby.

"A wise man knows when to fold," Larry hinted, readying Hector for a tank-blow and rapid surfacing maneuver. "Or at least gets clear of signal interference, so he can holler like hell for assistance."

Farrell nodded.

"Okay," he said, "Let's…"

The shock wave was like an apocalyptic hammer blow, as delivered by maddened titans. Their instruments cut off almost at once, and so did the lights. Then, like a dropped stone, Hector went down, plunging through hot, sulfurous water and torrents of streaming gold.

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_Tracy Island, at the cliff side air strip, on an ashy but pleasant afternoon-_

Gordon's thoughts had been mostly of flight, the swim team and stowing his few belongings. Competition awaited him out there in Spain, and his stomach muscles were already tightening with anticipation. Been gone too long already, he had. Well past time to head back. But Gordon had hardly shaken Virgil's hand and started up the boarding stair, when the island's alarm system gave vent to a prolonged and hair-raising shriek.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, more concerned over Grandmother's poor health, than yet another emergency rescue mission. Still on bed rest, recovering from her latest stroke, Victoria Tracy mightn't very well manage the uproar and tensions of a Thunderbird launch. Wouldn't abandon the lads to seek peace on the mainland, however. Not even to save her own life.

His older brother stumbled a bit on the bottom-most stair, caught himself and then whirled round to face Gordon, who was already starting back down.

"Let's go, kiddo," Virgil ordered, pressing the glowing face of his wrist comm. "Your leave's just been cancelled, and we've got work to do."

If only their father had been there to help.

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_Flintridge, California, in one of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory's sample-containment buildings-_

Here, too, something odd happened. AS6750 first pulsed so brightly that even through tightly shut lids, Paige and John could make out their surroundings. Then it darkened, fading to a slightly-warmed lump of grey stone on a scorched and smoldering lab table.

The quantum Hamiltonian functions for two separate worlds were still crashing like cymbals in John's head, somehow not quite annihilating each other, but interfering, and in the process setting off storms of complex changes. Here _yes,_ there _no,_ elsewhere a weird superposition of both; all of them powered by the fast-dimming space rock. These newly sprouted infinities gave him a brief and terrible headache which vanished soon afterward, along with most of his associated memories.

John hardly felt Dr. Carlson's insistent arm-tug, following blindly because the majority of his processing capacity was otherwise occupied, and he couldn't very well fight her off. She was shouting something over all of those sudden alert sirens and lock-down warnings, but he didn't listen, thinking instead that state-vector collapse was as dangerous as a mine shaft cave-in, and just about as survivable. Paige rushed them past a series of negative pressure airlocks and red-flashing hazard lights on her own, not halting until they'd reached the lead-lined prep room.

"I'm sorry," he gasped a few minutes later, no longer quite sure what he was apologizing for. Scrolling madly through the rivers of data which filled the room's monitor screen, Dr. Carlson didn't look up.

"John," she said, "you had nothing to do with this. There's no rational way you _could_ have. AS6750's completely unstable. Everyone knows that. This is just a random power fluctuation, and it will correct itself shortly."

"Yeah," he agreed, as a team of NASA medics burst through the outer door. "That must be it."

So why did he feel so guilty?


	94. 94: Choices

Lots to tell, once dinner has ended.

**94: Choices**

_Midworld, in the rocky, peninsular kingdom of Orkney-_

Lot was a very minor king; poor in land, rich in sons… less his youngest, who'd abandoned family and order, both, to set off on a worthless fool's errand. Bad enough. Unforgivable, in fact, but there was worse. In his innermost heart, Lot had perhaps expected that Gawain would repent, or that he'd die attempting to reclaim his standing as a paladin. Neither had happened, and their circle of five, the Order of the Cross, remained broken. They were injured and bleeding, all of them, in some way that did not show at all upon the surface, but which nonetheless robbed them of power, magick and purpose.

"It is Morcar's doing," Lot growled to himself, as he sat alone in his private withdrawing room. The chamber was small and nearly barren, with a deeply set, star-shaped window and thin, dank straw for a carpet. "He has given the apostate shelter, and prevented what must be, if the Order is to heal."

…For this power loss and dissolution could not be halted without another paladin to take up the fallen one's burden, yet none would receive the call so long as Gawain yet lived.

The stone room was grown dark and cold, so Lot focused steel-colored eyes on a tabletop candle, willing the fat yellow cylinder to spring alight. He had to struggle for the magick, clenching his teeth and lowering his head until the strands of his grey beard scraped his chest, where once an idle thought would have done it. And if _he_ was experiencing such difficulty, what of the others? What of Kent, Argonne and Ravencall?

Lot's fists clamped on the rough wooden tabletop. He leaned forward in his carved chair, staring until the wick sputtered, and a thin curl of smoke began spiraling up through the chilly, still air. A bit of flame appeared; not much, and not the usual pure, shining white, but not complete failure. He had time, yet, before the magick bled entirely out through the gaping wound in their circle.

"Damn you, Morcar," Lot whispered, watching as that malformed flame drank molten tallow, hissing and flickering, stirring a host of weird shadows. "The lad was ill-fostered. He should have been banished from Falkirk, even. Every hand and weapon should have been turned against him!"

…Because then it would have ended. Gawain would have died, at his own hand or another's, and the call would have gone to a worthier man, healing their shattered order.

For just an instant, Lot's heart seemed to rip, as he recalled his son's choosing, his own former joy and deep pride in the boy. Then he slapped the guttering candle aside and lurched to his feet, toppling the heavy wood chair. A few stars peeped in from the violet darkness beyond his window, but Lot did not see them.

This is Morcar's doing, but I will settle it," the old man muttered aloud, his voice savage with hidden grief. "In a week's time, with fifty good men and the remains of the Order, I ride against Falkirk."

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_Far to the north-_

The company was reunited at the highest point of a frosty marsh, gathering close about Glud's well-laid fire and a pot of strong tea. Voreig stalked off after retrieving Frodle's staff, tome and satchel, only to return an hour or so later with a brace of thin rabbits, more fur than edible meat. Welcome, however, once cleaned, spitted and set to roast.

Everyone had a story to tell, though Drehn's was extremely brief and unhelpful, delivered over one shoulder as he worked to soothe and picket the horses.

"I rode out of the storm and into another place, where a number of drow lay in wait for me. We fought. They died. I'm back."

An eloquent bunch, elves. Gawain might have pressed for more information, but he'd an odd feeling that something was wrong at home. Not much time to dwell on it, though, for they were once more adrift in the wilderness, battered and nearly provision-less. Besides, Allat had commenced to speak, and no-one could think around that.

"Sir G, if you'd been there, you'd have knighted me on the spot for slyness, courage and cunning," the shape-changer boasted. "In fact, I may just sprout a new sword and do it, myself!"

Allat was in rather a neutral form at the moment, being more or less humanoid, but with utterly black eyes and a far-too-wide smile. He'd formed an extra pair of arms, too, to help in basting their roast rabbit dinner.

"Through landslides and up-thrusts, I dodged and wove, casting spells like our very own fire mage. Brought the whole place down _and_ saved lame, short and boring, over there! Pretty good, huh?"

Frodle lowered his head and blushed, but did not refute Allat's claim.

"I thank you for helping me," he said, interrupting the drying spell he'd been using to fan his wet tome. "Your assistance was… er… well-intentioned."

And if elves were close-mouthed, halflings were certainly diplomats. Gawain smiled, but did not speak, letting the shape-changer rattle on because the noise was actually rather comforting, and better to hear than the wind, or his worries.

Allat ended his wildly embroidered tale around the same time that their meat finished cooking, and was ready for portioning out with belt knives and hasty, scorched fingers. When all were bent to their food, Frodle spoke. Close by the fire and chewing delicately, he said,

"I apologize for falling into that pit trap, Gawain. I should have been more help to you all… but with the mudslide, and Dapple's injuries, I panicked rather than thought."

The scholar expected censure, but they'd been friends since Gawain stumbled into the Temple of Knowledge one evening, sore-wounded and deeply confused. He'd been allowed to recover in an empty novitiate's cell, not far at all from young Frodle's. You could pass information quite well through a grate, if brother lore-master was otherwise occupied, and the rest were chanting their lessons.

"You've no call to apologize," Gawain assured the halfling. "All of us were taken by stealth and foul magick, and I wasn't much good m' own self, f'r the matter of that. Let it rest, and resolve t' do better when faced with the like, again."

Men were in general a mixed lot, but Gawain was better than most; still bold, but saddened and made nobler by experience. The trappings of knighthood did not suit him so well as a half-orc's wool blanket, his fire-lit circle of friends, and a cup of snow-melt tea.

Glud spoke briefly of his own doings, blaming the accursed dwarves for most of what befell. After all, the fortress he and Voreig had taken refuge in had been built and abandoned by the men of stone, who'd left there a dreadful curse. The tale was urgent and vivid, acted out as though they sat huddled in a cave, watching a kinsman describe his last hunt. Words were grunted more than spoken; moves stomped and lunged; almost danced. When he came to the meeting with that chained and bitter oracle, however, Glud dropped to his haunches in the snow.

"…We passed through strange ways to a throne room, and there discovered a female. One of your sort, Gawain, who claimed that she served a fallen lord. She wore his chains and spoke of our journey."

The knight shifted a bit on his rotted-log seat.

"And what had she t' say?" he enquired, in very low tones.

Voreig grumbled something which caused Glud to nod vehemently, shaking his coarse braided mane of black hair.

"She said that our end would be shameful and swift. She said that her master acted not alone, and that the "changeling" would soon be found out, instead of crowned."

Sir Gawain grew suddenly still. Eyes dark and serious in the leaping firelight, he repeated,

"_Changeling_?"

…As though the word was an oddly-shaped lump, too large to be swallowed and bitter to taste.

"Aye, but I don't know what was meant by it. My mother sees far, but she mentioned nothing at all of lost or visited cublings."

Perhaps not… but someone else _had._ Gawain returned to his meal, eating mechanically and without enjoyment, his stomach tied in icy-hard knots.

"Have you any proof that this mouth-of-a-fallen-lord spoke truly, then?" he asked at last, while wind sprites hissed past, and bits of blown snow popped to steam in their fire. Glud shrugged, lifting and dropping his table-wide shoulders.

"She put herself beyond all my questions, Gawain. I would have broken her chain and brought the female forth, but she ran from me and fell through a hole in the floor."

"Right. Well… considerin' th' source, then, t'was probably nothin' but lies." Or so he told himself.

Drehn returned to their circle after a time, having unsaddled the horses, conjured up decent fodder, and groomed them a bit. Dapple, especially, appreciated the attention, for his newly healed hide itched ferociously. There were spells for such difficulties, but a cloth and hand rubdown held more benefit, as it calmed both their spirits. Though, not as much in Drehn's case. Coming back to the fire, he spelled the blaze up, and then summoned Glud's ale flask.

"Are we decided on a plan, or still bullshitting?" he demanded, testy with doubt, drink and self-loathing. "Because I have a life to lead in civilized lands, Gawain. Find the damn meteor… space rock… sky-metal, that is, and get back. That's what you told us, not that we'd wander forever, facing attack from all sides and below."

The scholar replied before Sir Gawain could. Putting forth a placating hand, Frodle clasped the elf's shoulder, saying,

"Have patience, my friend. This is more than a search for hoarded treasure or magical trinkets. This is Light against darkness, in a game with mortal pieces. You are here for a _reason,_ elf. Never doubt that."

Frodle meant well, but his words brought stinging confusion rather than comfort.

"Yes, I am," Drehn snapped, rising to fling aside the ale flask, "but perhaps not your reason, nor _his._"

Before anyone could voice a question, the pale-haired mage said,

"I'll set wards and watch the perimeter, tonight. The rest of you had better try to sleep." Then he strode off, hardly stirring the mist, snow and muck.

The elf would have paid a tenth of his own blood not to be followed, but Gawain could simply not leave matters be. Not _ever_.

"Y'r wanting t' leave?" the knight asked him, as Drehn stalked about spelling and setting ward stones, in a pattern like the gems of a star-metal crown. The elf straightened, glanced at his doomed friend, then away.

"If I could have done it without endangering the rest of you, I'd have taken a night walk and never returned," he said. "I don't belong here, Gawain. I've… I've lived on the surface long enough to learn a few things. Trees, for instance. You know what fells a great tree, Gawain? Not flame or the axe, but rot, chewing away from within. You _know_ what I am, and you're a fool if you think I can change."

Drehn saw clearly, despite the mist and yards-away fire. Gawain, however, discerned only his friend's slender outline and imagined expression, silhouetted like shadow on marsh grass and snow.

"Y'r wrong, Drehn. I am no more a fool than a tree or a paladin… _or_ a game piece."

"Then prove it!" the elf snarled, dropping his last ward stone. "Give up this foolishness. Go home safe, and wed that fey little girl-child of yours. Let the gods and Midworld find themselves another tool."

…One he hadn't befriended and fought with.

"Or curse my name and send me away. Tell me to go to hell and sketch out a map. I'll vanish before the ink dries, my word on it."

But Gawain shook his red head, stubborn in the fierce, foolish way of mortal men. Folding muscular arms, he changed the subject, saying,

"I was spelt away like the rest of you, elf, to a place of the dead in battle, whose master had also fallen from power. They asked f'r help, and I chose t' provide it, rather than fightin' them, for they'd promised no harm t' the living."

Curious, Drehn cocked his head.

"What happened then?" he asked, interested despite himself.

"They were freed of the place and brought me out, too, despite an attack from below."

Reaching into a boar-hide belt pouch, Gawain drew forth a cracked whitish gem stone.

"One of them left me with this, which I suppose will be placed in a Faerie crown, to rest on… on some changeling's fair brow. Our future queen, belike."

Drehn took and examined the stone, which did not seem of great worth. Still… genuine value was sometimes quite hidden, as was genuine danger.

"The dead are not good liars," he said at last, handing back the white stone. "For the most part, they can be trusted to keep their given word. I, on the other hand, excel at betrayal and concealment."

Gawain took the milky gem, but not the baldly-couched warning. Turning away from Drehn to squint back at the fire, he said,

"On th' morrow we strike camp and make f'r the ice wall, elf. You as well, should you choose t' remain with our company. As friend and comrade, I trust you."

Drehn merely nodded. Was there no escape from this trap? None at all?

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_Tracy Island, the office-_

Virgil and Gordon pounded into the room at a breathless run, chased by wailing sirens. Scott was already there, of course, with Dr. Hackenbacker. Cindy Taylor stood a bit to their left, wary as a hunted fox cub. Not John, though, or Alan. They were away.

"What's going on?" Virgil panted, steadying himself with a big, splayed hand to the desk.

"Distress call from mid-Pacific," his brother replied, eyes flicking away from the tumbling data feeds. "Out near Terra Nova. Looks like a team of media-types have gotten themselves into trouble with Mother Nature. I've been trying to raise them, but all I get is their base ship, and a butt-load of circling spy planes."

"Base ship?" Gordon cut in, craning past Virgil for a look at the streaming telemetry. "Set off in a helicopter or submersible, have they?"

"So it would appear," Scott replied, gesturing Cindy away. "According to _Defiant,_ they went down to explore an active underwater volcano, found gold, and then broadcast their discovery. Of all the stupid, bone-headed…"

"Scott, the Discovery-Adventure crew consists of reporters first, scientists second," his scowling fiancée interrupted. "And a valuable secret is a dangerous thing. They _had_ to broadcast. I would have."

The fighter pilot shook his head, too busy plotting strategy to argue with the woman he planned to marry.

"If you say so, hon. Listen… why don't you run interference with the local authorities and media; see if you can pull strings to get us a filming and aircraft blackout."

"You're going in?" she asked, growing worried.

"No choice," Scott told her, pulling her in for a fast and distracted kiss. "This one's going to be one technical and hazardous rescue. If we don't respond, someone else will, and I can just about guarantee they'll get killed. Virge…"

Scott turned to regard his waiting brother.

"…I hate to bark orders, considering all we've been through, recently, but…"

"Let it go, Scott," Virgil told him, raking a tired hand through his own wavy brown hair. "You're in charge now, and what happened to dad _wasn't_ your fault."

Maybe not, but it sure felt that way, sometimes; when there was no one more experienced to consult, no father to turn to for guidance.

"Right," Scott replied, because he was the one they were looking to, now, and he had to be strong and assured. "Get 2 in the air ASAP, with pod four loaded up. Gordon, you'll be going in after our noble reporters. Fly smart and safe, both of you. I'll head over first in Thunderbird 1. Brains, you've got the desk."

The engineer nodded, blinking rather anxiously behind his thick glasses.

"Understood, S- Scott. And if, ah… if Mrs. Tracy asks wh- what has happened?"

Scott's blue-violet eyes darted a little downward and sideways, in the general direction of Grandma's room.

"Tell her that it's completely routine," he decided. "A capsized fishing boat or something. She shouldn't be worrying, Brains. It isn't good for her. Leave John in peace, too, unless absolutely necessary. He's got a mission coming up, and doesn't need the distraction."

Hackenbacker straightened his skewed tie and gave another, more vigorous nod.

"I'll, ah… I'll k- keep the situation under control, Scott. You just g- get out there and, ah… and go to work."

They shook hands, and then the team split up; Brains to a seat at Jeff Tracy's vacated desk, the boys to their waiting Birds, and a very dangerous rescue.


	95. 95: Altered Perspective

Sorry to be late with the update. Went out with my daughter last night to see Twilight. Good stuff!

**95: Altered Perspective**

_Flintridge, California, in a containment lab prep-room at JPL-_

No one else blamed John Tracy for the weird behavior of AS6750. No one, that is, but the astronaut himself, who couldn't shake a pounding headache and the terrible feeling that he'd caused all this: the scurrying personnel, blaring alarms, shouting voices and urgently prodding medics. All of it.

Something had happened to the Antarctic meteorite. It had faded, somehow, losing a great deal of power and mass. Or… not faded exactly, but shifted slightly away; reoriented itself. At any rate, most of the space rock's extra-dimensional energy was being projected elsewhere. John sensed all this, though he couldn't say how, and wasn't stupid enough to start babbling in front of the emergency medical team like a radiation-poisoned head case.

Instead, he sat quietly under blue-white fluorescent lights and let the medics do their job. He bared an arm and endured the tourniquet wrap and push-prick-sting of a fast blood test, then focused past the penlight and followed the chief medical officer's slowly moving finger. On cue he counted aloud, walked a straight line and then named the correct year and president (Michael Craney). Not far away, Paige Carlson did the same things, though much less politely. In fact, his old friend was burning with impatience to return to work. Twisting away from her very own team of hovering medics, Paige snapped,

"I'm perfectly well, thank you, and desperately needed back at the meteorite containment lab! Go find someone with a less vital project to bother!"

Then, ripping loose her Velcro blood-pressure cuff, Paige hurried to John, tip-toed upward and kissed his pale cheek, saying,

"All right, listen: get some rest, John. I'm going to suit back up and head in to check on Big Blue. Judging by the latest data, something major's happened, and these changes have to be monitored, if we're to make sense of them."

She stepped back just a little, then, with both of his hands gripped tight in her own.

"You'll be okay?"

"I'm…" _Being observed and recorded,_ he reminded himself, forcing a smile for the worried/ hopeful/ reluctant-to-leave but very impatient scientist. "I'm good, Paige. Go bandage the damn meteorite. I can manage."

She squeezed his hands, saying,

"I should have asked you to marry me back when my chances of landing a mate weren't quite so infinitesimal, John. At least when I talk about work, you _understand."_

He was a little stunned by the left-handed, back door proposal (if that's what it was), too stunned to do more than blink at Dr. Carlson's business-like, already departing form. Seconds later she was gone, leaving John alone in the prep room with a swarm of disappointed medical types.

"Right," he said aloud, turning to stride for the little cubicle which held his street clothes and personal effects. "I'm ready to go, too. Thanks for the aspirin. You can email my test results, whenever."

They would have liked a little more quality time with their subject, probably, but John had places to go, questions to resolve and a _real_ NASA doctor to face. One he could not simply pull rank on.

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_Midworld, at the fortress and lands of Falkirk-_

The estate held by Morcar was rocky and bleak, much given to sheep, heather and yellow gorse, drifting cloud shadow and moaning sea winds. Mist, as well; though this last had grown denser, of late. Denser… but not in a dank, heavy fashion. Simply, the air was all at once white-cold and prone to swirling, even indoors. Fires were difficult to light, and glowed with odd colours once started, consuming very little fuel.

Other things came about, that even the oldest crofter and goodwife had trouble explaining: cows gave milk and hens laid, well out of season. Still-born pups regained their breath, and a sickly old ewe recovered her health. Doorways appeared where none had been, earlier. But strangest of all was the utter absence of breakage, spills or accident. Not that objects weren't dropped or blades never slipped… Just that they refused to strike ground or cleave flesh; hovering quite still till picked up, again.

Amid all this lack of disorder, Lord Morcar and Father Arnolde went about with grim faces, battling the odd mist with incense and symbols. But it would not go away. Morcar found that it hovered most in his armory, forge and treasure rooms, liking least the barnyards, nursery and kitchens. The stuff worried him, and tight-stretched concern made him quite rough with his servants and family, who were ordered to stay indoors and go nowhere alone. His wolfhounds were becoming accustomed to the vile substance, though they'd alert at odd moments or watch silently, heads slowly turning, as something unseen crossed through the great stone hall.

"Wretched, beastly stuff," he snarled one morning, glaring at a patch of chill fog that had puddled itself before a newly-grown door in the south passage.

"Myles! Rodney! Have boards and stones brought, for here is another!"

"Aye, lord! At once!"

His two young attendants sprang away like wild hares, for no one liked the thought of a sudden and unexplained portal. Nor did they care to find out what lay on the other side. Not really. Such doings belonged in the Faerie castles of legend, not in a good, stout fortress of strong wood and drab northern rock.

Morcar sketched a few protective sigils and stared narrowly at the doorway, which lacked hinges or handle, and tended somewhat to drift. With one hand, he gripped his stained leather sword hilt. With the other, Morcar stroked his long moustache, willing the attendants to hurry. For, if this doorway sprang open… or all of them did… what would come forth into Falkirk?

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_Tracy Island, Thunderbird 2-_

Virgil was never so comfortable, so much himself, as when flying his giant green Bird. She _looked_ slow and cumbersome, shook the ground like a horizon-wide storm while taxiing out to the runway, but none of that mattered when he sat in the pilot's chair, wired up and ready to go.

The cliff-side doors rumbled open as Virgil completed the last of his preflight checklist, working in tandem with Gordon. Tropical sunlight flooded hangar and cockpit alike, bringing a more natural color to the tense faces of both young men.

Virgil hummed as he worked; bits of this and snatches of that, as his mood and the shifting engine noises suggested a melody. He also chewed gum, because rhythmic movement was soothing, and it kept his mind off of cigarettes. A little.

"Anything new?" he asked his younger brother, once Brains cleared them to leave the hangar. Gordon it was, who usually studied their rescue scenarios.

"No… or, nothin' you'd care t' have changed, as such. There _do_ seem t' be rather more "diplomatic overflights" takin' place than before. Be damn near impossible t' come through so much surveillance unnoticed."

"Hmm…" Virgil mused, throttling back when Thunderbird 2 reached her launch ramp and wheel locks. Once there, she jolted to a stop, bouncing his view of the ocean and sky outside. "That problem we'll have to leave for Scott. Or John, if he's free to join in. If not…"

A great, ringing _**clang**_ shook the cockpit, then, as many sets of massive steel clamps locked onto Thunderbird 2. All at once, like some collector's enormous green beetle, she was pinned into place. Gordon took the noise and vibration in stride. Like his older brother, the red-haired Olympian had done this many times before.

"If not," he finished for Virgil, "I might splash in a bit earlier than normal… Ease past them all, well below radar, as it were."

Virgil rubbed at his jaw, a habit of his while thinking hard. 2's computers were busy talking shop with Island Base and the newly operational space station, while Brains and Scott held distant conversation amid a background of _breeps_, _hums_ and _clicks_.

"Maybe," Virgil sort-of agreed, "but it would mean one hell of a long cruise, with your shield up the entire time. I'm afraid 4's batteries might cut out under that kind of strain, kiddo."

But Gordon was determined.

"Relax," he said, glancing away from the data screen. "She's got me safely past worse than just undersea vents before, Virgil. Remember when the entire bloody shelf collapsed, off the coast of North Africa? Or the time that an EMP mine left me without control or instruments, near th' edge of th' Marianas Trench? Thunderbird 4's an ace bit of engineerin', Virgil. She'll come through well enough, and so will I."

"Uh-huh."

Funny thing was, Virgil believed him. The Tracys had a way of surviving trouble (mostly) and Gordon was unusually gifted with charm, skill and luck. But sometimes even the bravest, most resolute men were deserted by fortune. It had happened to dad, after all.

"Tell you what," Virgil said, jabbing a series of buttons. "We'll just have to see what happens, kiddo. No major decisions until Scott calls in with further information. I'm serious."

"But…"

"_No_ buts… except yours in a sling, if you try something stupid, Gordon."

"Hang on a bit and listen to me, Virgil. I c'n make this work, honestly!"

Their argument ended when, with a sudden sharp jerk and growling vibration, the launch ramp began to tilt, lifting Thunderbird 2's blunt nose until it stood about 45 degrees to the horizon. Now there was nothing but gem-blue sky to be seen through the main view screen, and the brothers were pressed to their seats like a pair of Apollo astronauts.

At Hackenbacker's green light, Virgil throttled up, thinking of dad, grandma, the twins, and how _not_ to risk losing a brother. Glancing aside at Gordon, he said,

"We'll play it by ear for awhile; avoid surveillance, get as close as we can, and wait for Scott's go-ahead."

… Or shouted it, rather. The engines' roar had become nearly deafening by this time, but Gordon understood him even so.

"Right. Subtle it is, then," the swimmer called back.

When the clamps unlocked, Thunderbird 2 blasted away from her berth like an emerald missile, sending shock waves far across jungle and ocean. She was gone so fast and so well shielded by Shadowbot that only the worst sort of mischance could have led to a sighting. Only sheer bad luck would have placed a tourist and hand-cam close enough to get digital footage.

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_Thunderbird 1, over halfway to the danger zone-_

Scott Tracy flew wave-flattening low, with every sense on heightened alert. His reaction time was quite a bit faster than regular thought, which is why he answered the main base-comm before consciously hearing it. Over the muted howl of his Bird's powerful engines, eyes on the fuzzy red sky and horizon, he replied,

"Island Base from Thunderbird 1. Go ahead, Base."

It wasn't Brains who'd called him, though. It was Cindy.

_"Umm… I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to answer that, so I'll just talk to you, Hollywood."_

The handsome pilot smiled, briefly, causing a pair of dimples to flash and then disappear.

"Fire away, Hon, but keep it short, and avoid using names or discussing locations."

_"Great."_ She sounded pretty frustrated, but he couldn't be sure, as there was no video feed for the call. Security, again. _"This is going to sound monumentally stupid, but okay… here goes: I talked to Somebody, and then Somebody's Boss, and then to the Lord High Butt-Head of Somebodies, and they all said __no__. The area in question is under tight surveillance and off-limits to all civilian aircraft, especially IR, blah, blah, blah. My take on the situation is that Butt-Head Overlord Supreme doesn't dare take his eyes off Mount Goldmore, just in case someone else tries to sneak in and plant a flag. Bottom line, they're not going to cease monitoring, and they won't go away, any of them. And believe me, I pulled every string, favor and dirty trick in the arsenal, Hollyw… um… I mean, you generic pilot of a perfectly legal and slow-moving plane, you."_

Scott smiled again, imagining her lowered brow, folded arms and dark scowl. Other things, too; like warm skin-scent and a long, slightly mint-flavored kiss. Then, regaining his focus with genuine difficulty, he said,

"Public performances are still a no-go, Hon. I'm going to need a quick and dirty workaround, in the next ten minutes."

…And that, very probably, meant John.

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_Midworld-_

Together, four weakened paladins had been able to open and stabilize a transport spell. Help had been required at the other end, from one Kenneth of Longstreet, a dark-haired wandering bard. The fellow was neither prosperous nor indiscreet; simply available, and talented enough to anchor the far end of a transport tube. Kenneth did not examine Lot's reasons for moving so many men and supplies within striking range of Falkirk, though he'd more than once sung for his bread and ale there. He _did_ ask to come along, however, for the doings of the great were always of interest to those beneath them. And one might make a song of it all, if nothing else.

"Do whatever you will," the old paladin told him, "but keep from my path, and do not attempt t' interfere."

The bard nodded, already composing as he followed this newly conjured train of animals, men and supplies. Later he would grow in wisdom, but at the time, Kenneth of Longstreet was young and impoverished; wont to stir up a pot just to learn what might drift from below and break through the scum.

He tried in subtle ways to ingratiate himself, but Lot had no patience for bards and seldom employed them, while the other paladins were too noble and distracted to notice a mere wordsmith. _He_ saw _them,_ however, noting that even their mounts were drooping, whilst their panoply no longer shone with quite the same bright and holy white gleam. Great happenings, indeed, whose meaning he could only guess at, all the while weaving marching chants to the rhythm of clopping hooves, creaking wheels and rattling armour.

Lot's transport spell had opened within a few days ride of Falkirk, so they reached that place rather quickly. Or, nearly did. A mist was there. Not the usual breath of Midworld and sky though, and not in the least bit ordinary.

Lot reigned in at the edge of a bare-limbed grey orchard, staring past Falkirk's small village to the hill and squat fortress itself. There, the Sword and Raven shifted atop a long wooden pole, but that was no mere wind moving the red silk banner.

"Lord of us all," Lot muttered, gazing at a dense fog of loosed spirits, "what outrage is _this?"_

Beside him, Prince Ravencall shuddered and made a sign against evil, for the dead were guarding Falkirk, in such numbers as to defy count or description. They were armed, as well; some with the sort of weapons that Lot knew and understood, others bearing great metal tubes and odd-coloured clothing which in life would surely never have turned a blade. In hordes they paced the battlements and peered from the main keep, attending to even the barns and icy, stubbled fields. Well and truly was Lord Morcar's land warded.

Lot stared for a very long time, shivering with cold and with wrath. His fellow paladins saw, of course, and so did the wide-eyed young bard. But the ordinary soldiers he'd brought from Orkney detected nothing amiss but a puddled and shifting white fog.

"Sire?" asked Wilfred, his grizzled sergeant-at-arms, "shall we hail the keep, or perhaps send a message? Yon bard might bear it, or young Cuthbert, here."

Wilfred indicated a stout lad in tunic and leggings who tried all at once to seem strong and responsible, but Lot shook his head, no. Weakened as they were, his broken circle of knights could not hope to drive off this swarm of restless dead warriors. Especially as the ghosts had been given passage to Midworld by one he was fast coming to hate. Magick left definite traces, you see, particularly that which called upon blood. Particularly the blood of a sibling, ally… or son.

"Nay," said the old king, between tightly-clenched teeth. "Falkirk is closed to us, now. We shall make passage north, instead, to find and destroy the apostate."


	96. 96: Dead iAlive Ghost

Everything's finally about to click together and conclude. Just a few more bits to set into place, a few final touches to add. Thanks, ED and Tikatu, for reviewing the last one. I have a couple of days off, so I can actually respond!

**96: Dead – (i) Alive = Ghost**

_Leaving California behind, in something of a rush-_

John had ordered up a Tracy Aerospace business jet to convey Penny from Flintridge to New York City (after first clearing the plane's private use with Ms. Bonaventure, the family's chief attorney, and with Albert Jenkins, their corporate PR man). It wouldn't have been wise to seem unusually attached to a "family friend" so John was careful to avoid kissing or embracing Penelope in public. (But he might not have done it, anyway, confused as he was over all that had happened, lately; females only made sense when they wanted to. Even the hyper-intelligent ones, like Paige.)

So he and Lady Penelope parted company on a NASA airstrip in California, with many breathless vacation plans on her part and a few grunted promises on his. _(Yeah, he'd meet her in New York. Sure, they'd go to Greece together. No, nothing was wrong, but she'd best get going before the plane took off, without her.)_

He was troubled, though; about his relationship to Penny and a few other things. Dad's accident, Grandma's strokes, the peculiar shifts in AS6750, and his upcoming flight physical. _Nothing_ felt right, or even coincidental.

Back in his own plane, the blond young man decided to try something inexplicably dumb. He brought out his new laptop and used a certain short code to circumvent normal boot-up, leaving the rig in… well, attack mode, though he wasn't planning to hack anyone. Just communicate. Hopefully.

What he was doing didn't make any sense. It was only a computer, after all. Nice to begin with and highly modified since purchase, but surely not able to change or explain anything. Still, with the Learjet ready to go and Houston expectantly waiting, John turned in his seat a little and then addressed the laptop's black screen and command prompt.

"I'm not crazy. I know you can hear me," he quietly said to… whomever. "And I'm not leaving this spot until I get some damn answers. You tell me what the hell just happened, or that's it. I quit. Out of the game, if I have to shoot _both_ of us to arrange it."

John hadn't formed any clear expectations of his computer's likely response, but the "damn answers" came as a cold-water shock, anyhow. The laptop's screen deepened and flickered briefly, displaying a rapid series of black-and-white, 4-dimensional pixmaps, 128 bytes per pixel; more information than he was consciously able to process, and much more disturbing than he was prepared to accept.

"That bad, huh?" John murmured, feeling his headache worsen. Glancing away didn't help. No matter where his blue eyes rested, he saw shifting, flipping Rubik's Cube pixmaps superimposed over the meat-space scenario behind. Instruments, runway, the jet's luxurious tan and white interior… everything. There was so much data being projected at John by his computer that the process physically nauseated him, but he sensed that it… _she_… somehow needed his input. And that quitting simply wasn't an option.

Flintridge ground control called in a few minutes later, and John heard the Lear's radio respond with his voice, calmly accepting taxi and takeoff instructions. The astronaut himself was too busy coding to listen in, or even to fly his own plane.

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_Midworld, in the lands and fortress of Falkirk-_

The Lady Anelle had always been forward and willful; the despair of her nursemaid and tutors. Her mother declared that she'd been born in a wild and unruly month, and would surely grow out of such tempers, but her father, Lord Morcar, knew better. At any rate, where others in the keep saw only a weird, shifting mist, Anelle beheld _people;_ the vanished men- and women-at-arms of many lands. Frightened at first, she did not reveal what had seeped into Falkirk, soon discovering that these tattered phantoms meant no harm at all, but only help and protection. A dropped golden ring was returned, and on the second day, a tortoise-shell comb gently released from her tangled black hair. Better still, when Anelle finally plucked up the courage to address one of these spirits, it spoke with her.

The girl learnt all of this because she had no choice one day but to pass through a wispy-fair woman with strange weapons and party burnt attire of green and tan cloth. (A metal helmet of sorts, too, though it did nothing to cover the woman's round face.)

"Pray excuse me," Anelle said to her, reaching rather hesitantly for a door handle which lay just inside the ghost's misty back. "But I should like to pass through and walk about the keep, if you please."

The ghost-woman nodded and actually smiled, whispering,

_"Pass, milady," _as the stout oaken hall door shimmered into brief non-existence.

It was a very wide-eyed Anelle who walked through ghost and door, both, with her centaur colt pressed close at her side. Over the last two days, the little fellow's missing leg had somehow grown again, and he limped now hardly at all.

Moving through phantoms did not hurt, but it felt surpassing strange; like brushing past frost-dusted cobwebs. Certain things… names, deeds and final worries… clung in her thoughts like a long, sticky strand. Anelle rubbed at little Chester's bushy-maned head, as much for her own comfort as his. To the ghost, now on this side of a once-again solid oak door, the girl said,

"I thank you for letting me pass, Jennifer. And surely… Tom? Tom will be well."

The ghost moved a bit, not so much nodding as pulsing.

_"I can check on him, now, milady, and even help a little, so long as nobody notices me."_

A thought occurred, then. Tightening her hold on the nervous colt, Anelle ventured a question.

"Are you able to scry elsewhere, Jennifer? To Gawain, perhaps? He is my champion, and I fear for him, so very far off in the north. Can you see if he is yet well and safe?"

Jennifer's edges blurred momentarily, as she combined just a bit with the fog that surrounded them. Then, sharpening once more, she said,

_"Milady, there isn't much I'm allowed to say, except that he'll come under attack soon from a group of former… not just relatives… __brethren__, that's the right word."_

Anelle took a very deep breath and squared her slim, velvet-clad shoulders.

"Then I must go to him," the girl decided, a determined spark flaring in her wide green eyes. "If he's to battle what's left of the order, then I'll fight at his side, no matter the end or the cost."

Chester nudged her. Being but a long-legged horse-child, he did not speak well, but his meaning was clear enough. Where his adoptive mother went, so would he.

"Can you provide us disguise?" Anelle asked, putting forth a slim hand. It entirely failed to contact the phantom's shoulder, but Jennifer smiled, anyhow. Once again, she appeared to consult. Other spirits gathered in the meantime, graveyard-quiet but clearly willing to help.

_"I…" _began Jennifer, _"That is, we'd like to tell more than… you see, there's a ban (you'd call it a geis) put on us. But, listen carefully, milady: outside the fortress some men are preparing to leave. Disguise yourself, take arms and the colt, and follow them north. We'll try to help all we can."_

There was quite an assemblage around Anelle and Chester by now, causing their breath to condense in the hallway's close, chilly air. Ghostly forms blent together in the long stone passage, transferring strength and advice to the girl and her centaur child. Clothing and arms were passed, too; as the coarse tunic and breeches she'd worn in her last outing were retrieved from her father's locked war chest, together with the sword and dagger she'd borne. There was even a child's hunting bow and quiver of arrows for Chester, a tinderbox and a pack of diverse provisions.

Sneaking away was not at all difficult, when mist could be thickened to impenetrability and stone walls made ethereal as air. Anelle hurriedly donned proper clothing and accouterments. Then, taking Chester's brown little hand, she stepped from the keep and down a long ramp of fog to the cold-withered orchard, where Lot made ready his transport spell.

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Meanwhile, in a boiling, acidic ocean, a wrecked submersible waited for help, while the spy-craft of many nations circled overhead. Hector lay on its side, nose partly buried in the dissolving muck of a shattered reef. Occasionally, the sub's computer sparked to life long enough to signal for rescue, but something was blocking that signal; something very large and swift, which glided through the poisoned waters like a shark.


	97. 97: Past

Moving right along...

**97: Past**

_Over the Pacific Ocean, racing at break-neck speed for Terra Nova-_

Scott Tracy flew Thunderbird 1 the way he'd have flown a Valkyrie fighter jet; very fast and insanely low, kicking up a 20-foot rooster tail of shimmering water. He had the force field on, plus one other ace-in-the-hole, saved for later: the field's invisibility function. Together, these marvels of technology might just keep him alive and unseen, long enough to coordinate an extremely dangerous rescue.

Conditions were grim. The acidic swells just beneath him were choppy and troubled, while the winds that screamed past Thunderbird 1 couldn't seem to pick a direction, alternately yanking, battering and slapping his aircraft. Scott corrected for these forces almost without thinking, flying in tandem with one of the most sophisticated computers on the planet.

It was a wild and juddering ride. Sometimes a high-cresting wave struck, breaking over the force field like a watery mountain, and temporarily blinding him. Once or twice, wind sheer forced the Bird's nose down, but her shield absorbed and redirected most of the energy, just as (in a second configuration) it would warp and redirect light.

"Okay," Scott muttered to no-one in particular, when the first spy planes showed up on his radar, "time to go dark."

He pressed a few virtual keys by shifting his gaze, causing Thunderbird 1 to disappear visually, as well as radar and scanner-wise. Not _quite_ the blessing it might have sounded, because a hurtling, invisible object was twice as likely to get hit as something others could actually see and avoid. He was going to have to drive defensively, to say the least, keeping well under those circling planes.

…And _damn,_ but that shield guzzled power! Gauges and needles dove like Thunderbird 4, outlining a worrisome, vampiric energy drain. He hadn't much time, at this rate of draw. Then Terra Nova appeared on his water-streaked view screen; her steam, clouds and ash-plume visible long before the crescent-shaped island, itself. Scott throttled back and tilted the stick some 30 degrees left, sweeping his Bird into a low arc around a boiling sore composed of tumbling rock and geysering steam.

"Wow," the pilot whispered to himself, staring at blazing gas jets, tortured dark clouds and wild lightning, "it looks like hell's water park, down there."

Engaging the comm, he said,

"Island Base from Thunderbird 1: I've reached the danger zone, Brains."

_"Ah… FAB, S- Scott. What's the scenario?"_

Small stones and pumice bits rattled against the force shield, mercifully unable to enter the Bird's intakes, or dent her silvery hull. Thunder rumbled, and waves evaporated explosively against fiery stone.

"Not good," the pilot responded, simultaneously checking his scan readouts and circling the island in search of a reasonably safe landing site. "Four's going to need full shielding, with minimum time spent below surface. This stuff has the pH of battery acid, and it's hot enough to melt lead near the most active vents. What's the ETA on Thunderbird 2, Brains?"

He didn't like the situation. Not at all.

_"Ah… V- Virgil predicts another forty-two minutes, fifteen seconds, Scott, if, ah… if the winds don't g- get any worse."_

"Right."

While he circled, the pilot called up a recent satellite image of the area, superimposing the source of that stuttering distress call, and the information he'd gotten from Defiant. Hector, the downed submersible, lay sideways and nose-down, at the base of a mostly-dissolved coral reef. Nor was that the worst of his news. Hydrothermal vents thundered nearby like factory smokestacks, belching toxic, hull-eating gases and terrible heat. In three ugly words: worst case imaginable.

Meanwhile, the audience above grew larger, and their bickering fiercer. Every Pacific Rim nation seemed to be present, with WorldGov doing little to calm matters down. All of them had laid claim to the trillions in gold being shot from those vents. Worse, they weren't willing to pull back and allow an unsupervised rescue, for fear of a rival claimant seizing valuable territory.

Very carefully, Scott Tracy brought his shielded aircraft to a stop on half-impeller, hovering just a few yards above the island's smoldering north limb. The rock was just a bit older there and slightly less volatile.

"This is going to have to be the world's fastest rescue," he muttered, staring at his instrument panel and the hellish landscape outside. Between the impellers and Hackenbacker's ravenous invisibility shield, Thunderbird 1 would be drained white in less than two hours.

"I'm in," he announced aloud. Then, "Virge, you with me?"

_"Right here, Scott, and I'm up to speed on the general situation, thanks to Brains. What's the game plan?"_

"I'm thinking stay low and release early. Keep 2 out of sight, letting Thunderbird 4 go in most of the way, alone."

_"Hell, no…!"_

Virgil started to protest, but his oldest brother cut him off.

"It'll work, Virge, if he gets in fast, takes the downed sub in tow and brings it back to Defiant instead of all the way out to you. One shot, because he won't have power enough for a second attempt."

…But they were going to need serious back-up, and not just from Hackenbacker. Rushing a still protesting Virgil off the comm, Scott next called their brother, John.

_"Hey, Scott,"_ the astronaut responded. _"What seems to be the major malfunction?"_

That was a little surprising. Irritating, too.

"Have you been following the news at all, John?" he demanded.

_"Um… which iteration… channel, that is?"_

"Any of them. Before the gold-rush scenario, Terra Nova was a scientific curiosity. Now it's goddam Fort Knox, with probable casualties and bloodshed."

_"Uh-huh."_

John sounded, not just distracted, but incredibly disinterested; as though this conversation were one of millions, and very low on the hit list, at that. Scott began to grow angry. Astronaut training was tough, he _got_ that, but there were lives on the line, out here.

"Dammit, John, pay attention! I need your help to confuse those spy planes and satellites, in case Gordon has to surface unexpectedly. Plan A has him hooking up and towing the derelict sub to Defiant. It's risky, but…"

Scott paused a moment, expecting a comment. None came, leaving only the shrill wind and rattling pumice, the rumbling thunder, exploding waves and screaming jet planes to finish his sentence.

"John!"

_"Still listening, Scott. Fire away."_

"Look… I don't know what else you've got going on, but this is serious. This is… I don't want to lose anyone else, little brother."

More like, he _couldn't _lose any more family. Not and stay sane_._ Just over six months ago, the mission to rescue a load of Fireflash victims from Everest had gone horribly wrong, costing the boys their father. John was silent a moment. Then, he said,

_"Scott, quit kicking yourself in the ass about that. You were exhausted. You couldn't have flown another mission so soon after that mess in the Pyrenees. Dad knew what he was getting into on Everest. He went, anyhow."_

…And the fact that he'd subsequently fallen, been swept to the base of a hidden crevasse on that terrible mountainside, was nobody's fault and everyone's heartache. A stunned Gordon had had to be _ordered_… fairly _screamed_ at… not to lower himself into that dark, frozen throat after Jeff's broken body. The risks were unacceptable, with no other pilot for Thunderbird 1, and a planeload of crash victims in need of immediate treatment. Instead, in absolute silence, Gordon had flown to Peking, and then home.

Their loss was mostly unknown to the rest of the world, which counted the Everest rescue a brilliant success and hadn't yet wondered much about the notoriously reclusive Jeff Tracy.

…But five young men were truly orphans now, struggling to deal with what felt a death-blow.

Scott shook his head, loosening a few of those bitter-cold cobwebs. If only _he'd_ been there, instead of dad… If he'd just forced himself to ignore all the aches and damn weariness…

"I'm not going to let it happen again, John," he told his brother. "I'm in charge, now, and I'm going to get everyone back, every time, or else we get out of this business for good. That said, in order to assure safety and success, I need you with me, firing on all cylinders. Understood?"

When his brother's voice reached him again, it had changed. John sounded more tired, maybe, but also more natural. More _present._

_"Understood, Scott, and I'm on it. Give me five minutes to blind those satellites and wreak havoc with the spy-planes' on-board systems, and then have Thunderbird 2 drop Gordon."_

Shortly thereafter, the rescue began in earnest.


	98. 98: Extremes

Thanks, ED and Sam. This one's a bit late, and will require editing. Shall edit last chapter title's inadvertant duplication, too... both in the morning!

**98: Extremes**

_In the cockpit of Thunderbird 2, nearing Terra Nova-_

Virgil wasn't at all pleased with the plan as outlined. He flew tensely through wild, rumbling weather, hands locked tight to the steering yoke and face rigid, but he would not gainsay Scott's decision. Not in the absence of a higher authority. Fortunately, Thunderbird 2 was a larger, more stable aircraft than Thunderbird 1; much easier for a frustrated and worried young man to fly.

"One try, Gordon. Slam, bam, thank-you-ma'am. Got it?"

His red-haired younger brother, busily examining Brains' uploaded mission notes, merely grunted.

"I'm serious, kiddo," Virgil continued, glancing sideways at Gordon. "Just get in, get the sub, and go. Straight to Defiant and then back to the drop site for pick up. I'll be waiting."

This time, the swimmer's grunt was accompanied by a short nod. Didn't mean much. Gordon had always felt free to expand stated orders, often going farther and taking more risks than was wise. Sometimes, he wound up in trouble, though never through lack of research.

According to the mission notes, Dr. Hackenbacker agreed with Scott and John. He recommended that they drop Thunderbird 4 almost fifty nautical miles east of Terra Nova. There, plumes of grey ash, streaming clouds and Shadowbot might conspire to hide the big cargolifter, allowing 4 to slip in unnoticed. (If all went as hastily planned.)

When the proper time came, Virgil brought Thunderbird 2 as close to the turbulent ocean as he dared, and then extended 4's exterior launch ramp. Gordon had already left the cockpit, donning most of the toxic-water survival gear that he'd need for this mission, and climbing aboard his bright yellow Waterbird. He logged in with a rapid voice and eye scan, booting up the computer and instrument panels. …Not that there was anything much to see at the moment but a hollow and echoing transport pod. Down in the hold, there weren't any windows. Nothing to break the monotony but occasional sensations of rumbling movement.

_"Ready in there?"_ Boomed Virgil's highly magnified voice.

"Right as rain," Gordon responded, flipping switches and checking gauges, stubbornly not thinking much beyond the mission and moment. Introspection had never been among his greatest strengths. Now, six months after Everest, thinking too deeply actually hurt.

_"Okay, then. Launch sequence initiated, kiddo. Good luck out there, and drive safe. I'll see you in a few."_

Gordon responded by twice clicking the comm button. Preferable to speech, when one hadn't much, really, to say. Moments later, a bright red warning light flashed onto the heads-up display, together with the first number in a rapid countdown series. Following procedure, Gordon keyed in his launch code, beginning the count. Once, he'd have had a genuine drop to look forward to at the end of all this; straight down, pod and all. Now all he faced was a heart-stopping slide and submersion, with no tell-tale green cargo pod bobbing about for others to locate and sink. (Which had happened once, actually.)

_100… 99… 98… 97… 96… 95… 94… 93… 92… 91… 90…_

Outside, a sulfurous wind whistled and moaned. Inside, the launch sequence reduced precisely on schedule, and things began happening. From _100_ to _85_, his propulsion system powered up, as control was transferred to the onboard computer from Thunderbird 2. At _60_, a set of magnetic locking clamps retracted, freeing Gordon's submarine to move. Then the pod doors hummed briskly aside, leaving no more than a flickering force shield between Thunderbird 4 and the elements. The ramp was already extended; rollers unlocked and base poised mere metres from that acid-tinged sea.

_30… 29… 28… 27… 26… 25… 24… 23… 22… 21… 20… _

A wild, shrilling klaxon sounded. Certain physical changes took place within Thunderbird 4, connecting her nuclear batteries to the propulsion system and arming her only "weapon", the plasma cutting torch.

_10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2…_

At _1,_ the submarine's engines flared to life, sending her hurtling forward; out through the force shield and down the long ramp. Like a diving cormorant she impacted water, plunging below surface in a rush of acidic foam and silvery bubbles. Downward she went, out of sight and into relative safety.

Gordon wore gloves, or the cybernetic data feed from 4's hull would have stung him all over. The warning lights and buzzers were bother enough, and ample sign that here, the ocean was dangerously poisoned.

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 4," he signalled the cargolifter, barely visible as a huge, wavering shadow overhead. "I'm away, Virgil. Back in just a bit."

_"FAB. Take care."_

Then, with a touch to his pedal and hand controls, Gordon sent the little sub deeper into the water. He ought to have keyed up a force shield as well, but Thunderbird 4's shield mechanism drew power at a truly fearsome rate, power he might later need. After all, a few extra minutes of energy could make all the difference between dead failure and four living scientists.

…Just as a bit more speed and strength might have allowed Gordon to reach Jeff Tracy before he fell to his death in a mountain crevasse; a catastrophe that the others hadn't seen fit to blame him for, despite the fact that Gordon had _been_ _there_, just tens of metres away, in the broken shell of a downed plane. No… it was better to take a small risk now, and save power. Better by far to have what he needed when the critical moment arrived.

Down he went, and westward, into increasingly turbulent waters. The first vents appeared after some forty-five minutes of rapid cruising, leaving Gordon no choice but to engage his shield and floodlights. The vent system was quite large; comprising a network of sea-floor cracks that spurted black, roiling columns of hot gas, and snowstorms of shimmering gold. Gordon stared, both amazed and appalled. There was no other motion but heat-rippled water and drifting bright flakes, for the ocean had become a graveyard. Here and there, Gordon beheld lumps of tattered organic material or the dissolving stump of a coral reef, but that was all. No fish swam, no crabs scuttled, no eels darted and snapped in his floodlights. Nothing.

Hearing and feeling the volcanic roar of those vents, imagining the water's dreadful heat and pH, Gordon thought of the other sub, and swore softly. _He_ had a working force field. _They_ had nothing at all but a few inches of disintegrating hull. That, and International Rescue. Throttling forward, Gordon Tracy increased speed to 35 knots and dove straight for the heart of Terra Nova's death zone.

A little earlier, above the water's surface, several things had happened at once. A cordon of surveillance satellites went inexplicably blind, while eight of twelve spy planes developed systems errors so severe that they were forced to depart the area. Not all of them, though. Some proved to be so well shielded that they couldn't be hacked without risk of crashing the plane, which meant that John had to switch strategies, fast.

Somewhat later, a sharp-witted tourist offered recently-shot digital launch footage, on the darknet version of Ebay. The winning bid for Thunderbird 2's video clip was 2.5 million dollars, from someone who called himself "the technocrat".

Had a few persistent spy planes and traceable launch footage been all that International Rescue faced that day, their situation would have been bad. There was _another_ submarine in the waters around Terra Nova, however; near enough to assist Hector, or to end the wounded vessel's plight.

Thresher was a modified attack sub, sleek and stealthy, designed for anti-piracy work, and ostensibly belonging to WorldGov. But certain of the boat's officers had an entirely different allegiance, and goals very much of their own.

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_Midworld, in a far northern land-_

Several days' hard riding had brought Gawain's company out of the frozen marshes and into something far worse: a land of rock, ice and velvety lichen, with few protective spirits and little game. Here, the sun never set, but slid drunkenly about the horizon as if too afraid of the edge to venture below. The air was bitterly cold, with only a handful of birds, small deer and white-furred rabbits for hunting. There _were_ other creatures about, detected through scythe-like scrapings and piles of shattered bone… but no one was particularly eager for contact with a troll or frost worm. The latter beasts were thirty feet long, sensitive to heat and vibration, and harder to kill than a dragon, not possessing very much of a brain.

Nearly all of Frodle's willpower and magick went to keeping these predatory nightmares ignorant of the company's passage, for Drehn was too busy scouting ahead to assist. Gawain did what he could, but the knight's concerns lay mostly with Falkirk, of late. With Morcar, Lady Kait, young Gareth and Anelle. Were they safe, he wondered? Had the trouble he'd sensed reached out to ensnare them? And what of his mother and siblings? How had they fared? Gawain meant to ask Frodle, when the halfling was rested from hiding the little group and conjuring feed for their mounts (who cared not at all for brown lichen).

Distances were very hard to judge in this place. There were no trees or buildings against which to measure progress, just wind, and a few meandering rivulets that blent together as the party trudged northward.

"Melt-water," Frodle explained, when he, Gawain, Allat and the two half-orcs made camp one night. "According to legend, it issues from the base of the ice wall and can be used in potions to heal dropsy, gout and scrofula."

"How many days' ride till we come t' the wall?" Gawain sighed, removing saddle and trappings from a deeply wearied George.

It was Glud who answered the question, for the halfling had once more gone rigid and pale, lips moving in a silent spell of defense and concealment. Trolls, perhaps… or worse. Snuffing loudly, the shaggy-maned orc said,

"A hand of days will bring us to the mountain of ice. Can you not smell its mark on the wind?"

Gawain smiled tiredly, but shook his red head.

"I haven't your skill for detecting scents, my friend. All that I'm able to do is fight."

George being at last freed of his trappings and furniture, Gawain slapped the horse's white flank and sent him off to join Dapple. Both animals tested the air and then gave vent to troubled whinnies, calling aloud for Grayling. As their scout had indeed been gone longer than usual, Gawain turned to Allat, saying,

"Convert yourself t' something winged and sharp-eyed, if you please, and seek out the elf. Let him know that he's wanted at camp so that Frodle may rest."

"Gotcha, Sir G!" The shape-changer declared brightly, shifting from puddled lump to mangy griffin. Rather scrawny he looked, but serviceable and very much eager to fly. "Allat the Shade, at your won-from-a-sorceress service! Elves found, halflings rescued, knights assisted, orcs…"

Voreig looked up from the fire he'd started, and grumbled sourly, brown eyes narrow and dangerous. He disliked Allat, who _did_ rather tend to run on.

"…Orcs left strictly alone. As in, never bothered or irritated. Never molested or harassed. Never offended or…"

Gawain had spelled himself free of his heavy mail shirt, armor and padded gambeson. Drawing a red wool cloak tightly over his odd-coloured surcoat, he said,

_"Now,_ Allat. Return with the elf, if you're forced t' drag him back, insensible. I'll not set wards with monsters about and one of our number missin'."

The griffin winked a yellow-brown eye, shook its tawny plumage and then leapt high into the frigid-cold air; a screaming, cawing, joyous explosion of cat-bird.

"Bit like martyrdom, keepin' him on," the knight sighed, taking a seat on George's discarded saddle. Not the most comfortable of perches, but warmer than the hard-frozen ground. Glud came over to squat alongside, placing himself between Gawain and Voreig. He put a few stones in the fire and then raked them out later, once they'd grown hot and could be spelled to retain their warmth. Best way to prevent freezing and still get some sleep, in a place like this.

Allat was not gone very long. In fact, to judge from the speed of his successful return, Drehn had already been headed back when the shape-shifter found him. The elf brought no food this time, but respite for Frodle at least, and information.

"There are several ley-lines ahead," he told them over the evening's tea and hardtack crumbs. "Two strong, one faded, converging somewhere to the north. Watch your spells and wishes, because even an idle thought could awaken strange echoes."

Gawain rubbed at his jaw, and scowled. Turning to Frodle (who was giddy with sleep) he asked,

"Shall we avoid th' lines, d'you think? Or follow them? Your defensive magicks might be less of a drain with so much power lyin' about unharnessed."

The exhausted scholar thought for a bit. Then,

"We ought to follow them," he decided. "So long as we're careful not to let our thoughts drift foolishly. _Especially_ you, friend Allat. No wishing for treasure, exotic foodstuffs or winsome maids."

Insulted, the shape-changer formed many sets of mouthparts, for the express purpose of emitting rude noises. Gawain interrupted after a time, raising his voice to be heard over the chorus of simulated flatulence.

"Right, then. Follow, it is. Safer, that way… and perhaps bein' so near t' the lines will bring back some of my own skill with magick." He could hope, at least.

So they sought out and followed a north-tending ley line, coming at last within sight of a massive, horizon-spanning ice cliff; blue in the shadows, glowing violet and wine where caught by the circling sun. Mountain-high, the wall was pocked at its base by a string of caverns like vast, sighing mouths. Mist curled slowly away from them, muffling the echoes of dripping water and groaning ice. Somewhere else the sight might have been merely impressive. Here, it seemed like the frozen end of all things.

As he'd done a few times before, Frodle removed from his satchel a dowsing pendant of ruby and polished electrum. Standing on one of the ley lines, where crackling motes of raw magick floated and danced, he spoke three words, calling to the sky metal in Faerie, Elvish, and the language of mortal men. Then he held the dowsing pendant by its long chain and gave it a single, rightward swirl. The ruby began to describe circles. Lazily, at first, and then tightening to swift, tilted arcs. Eventually the pendant halted, hanging sideways in midair, trembling as though drawn by a mighty, invisible force. _There_.

Gawain dismounted and then went around behind Frodle. Silently, he stooped down and squinted along the pendant's taut, quivering arrow. An ice cave lay beyond, no different in seeming from its many gusty brethren.

"Inside?" Drehn suggested, urging his horse forward.

"Yes," Frodle replied slowly, putting away the pendant. Consulting his tome brought other news, however. "All may enter," he later told his companions, "but two of us will not return."


	99. 99: The Way forward

Getting there... Freshly edited.

**99: The Way Forward**

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Over the blaring input from four different situation screens, occasional alarm klaxons and Cindy Taylor's frustrated shouting, Brains tried very hard to keep the mission together. No easy task, by any means.

Thunderbird 1 had sunk to a low-profile crouch on the less volatile northern end of Terra Nova. From _that_ screen, Hackenbacker received images of shuddering stone, flaring gas jets and pelting ash, with spy planes roaring across a lowered grey sky.

Meanwhile, Thunderbird 2 hovered in midair at the drop site, doing her level best to avoid detection. 2's data screen displayed a troubled sea and the distant, lightning-racked image of an erupting volcano.

Thunderbird 4 was in transit, her data temporarily frozen. Not unexpected, but worrisome, nonetheless, and Brains would be far happier when Gordon at last called in from the wreck site.

Thunderbird 5, in high orbit, transmitted a series of remote images from space, showing Hackenbacker a rapidly converging tide of ships, helijets, fortune hunters and curiosity seekers. In other words, trouble.

"It's all b- because of the, ah… the g- gold," Brains muttered, raking a hand through his messy black hair. "If this w- were an, ah… an ordinary rescue, nothing of the sort w- would be happening."

Hackenbacker was not alone in his annoyance. Just a few yards away, Scott's fiancée stood arguing over the phone with the latest in a string of bland and faceless authorities; getting nowhere at all, but getting there louder and less reasonably than anyone Brains had ever heard.

Then…

_"Boys? Dr. Hackenbacker?"_ Grandmother Tracy's blurred voice rang over the office wall-comm. _"What's going on out there? Is everyone okay?"_

The engineer winced. Forcing confidence he didn't feel, Brains turned to the waiting wall-comm and replied (in a soothing voice),

"Yes, Mrs. Tracy. Everything's quite w- well here. Th- Thank you for, ah… for asking. And how are _you,_ this, ah… this fine afternoon?"

_"Not stupid, is how I am!"_ Grandma snapped, _"Them alarms ain't ringing 'cause we're outta damn sugar! Now, answer me! What's happened to my boys?"_

Unsure how to reply, Brains looked from one status screen to another, and wondered whether matters could possibly get worse.

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_Thunderbird 1, hovering low above Terra Nova-_

Scott and Virgil received identical warning messages from their brother, John. As usual, the astronaut didn't elaborate much, simply advising them to…

_"Switch comm setting to 192.8 in case of emergency, and ignore anything else you see or hear for the next fifteen minutes. Talk to you, later."_

…After which he abruptly cut contact.

"John, wait!" Scott demanded, feeling the hot, prickling start of a serious migraine. "Why fifteen minutes? What're you planning?"

Virgil had questions, too, but their brother did not reply, having already moved on to the next strategy; the next reality-cheat. All very aggravating for Scott and Virgil, who could not understand John's behavior, or get him to talk, even.

It wasn't that John didn't care, though. Just that it was becoming exponentially harder… faced with all of these permutations and variants of his family… to select the ones he'd started with. The past had blurred like a wet chalk painting, leaving John uncertain exactly which series of events he was trying to defend and restore. In the end, all he could do was guess.

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_Several hundred meters below the Pacific, moving now at over 45 knots-_

Gordon kept a weather eye on 4's power levels as he followed the last known coordinates to Hector. The water was grown terribly caustic and frightfully dark, but he pushed his craft, anyhow, counting on the accuracy of Brains' charts and his own skill to keep him alive and out of trouble. There wasn't much time left, the aquanaut realized. He'd have all he could do to find and tow the downed sub.

…_If_ Hector's hull integrity would permit any sort of attachment, and…

_If_ those undersea vents produced no further surprises, and nothing else went wrong. But that was a great many "ifs". Deeply concerned, Gordon pushed 4's throttle still further.

At those speeds, even with a near-frictionless force shield in place, Thunderbird 4 made noise. More than enough to alert Thresher's sonar-man, who quietly signaled for his captain.

"Very good," the officer replied, keeping his voice to the barest possible whisper, lest their quarry should hear and be warned. Motioning for his XO, the captain straightened and said, "Mr. Pike, prepare the distress signal and make ready to act, on my word."

Some of the crew looked up from their posts, confused. But, of course, the old man knew exactly what he was doing. Naval ships and submarines were run with drum-tight discipline, even those belonging to WorldGov. Whatever happened next was not for a mere sailor to question, or to second guess.

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_Midworld, within sight of the ice wall, the sun having rolled away behind it, casting long, frigid shadows-_

Gawain folded his arms, causing his chain mail and gauntlets to rattle like stones in a bucket.

"No," he refused. "I'll not have it. Danger's one thing… part of life, as it were… but not _this_ sort of guaranteed loss. If such are the risks, then I'll go in alone."

"And you'll fail," said the scholar, squinting up at his much taller friend. "Gawain, this quest _cannot_ be accomplished by just one man. The danger is real and the cost to us high, but we must go on. The heir must be crowned and contact with Faerie regained. To that end, I'm willing to risk my own life, though I can't speak for the others."

Beside the expectant halfling, Allat switched forms with edge-blurring speed. In a very small voice, he said,

"I'm bound to your service, Sir G. You won me from a sorceress, remember? I _have_ to go along, if you really, _really_ need help."

The knight scowled stubbornly, and shook his head.

"Y'r free," he said. "I renounce all claim t' y'r service, Allat. Stay or go as you will."

The shape-changer's eyes widened. In fact, he sprouted several more of them, some of which swiveled to regard Frodle.

_"You're_ planning to stay?" he asked the young scholar, who nodded determinedly.

"I haven't a choice, friend Allat. If we don't seize the chance to restore contact and order, there won't be much point in staying alive. Darkness from below will spread to conquer all Midworld."

"Uh-huh."

Allat's uncertain glance fell next upon Drehn, but the gloomy elf would not meet his gaze.

"I'm here," was all that he'd say.

"And me, as well," Glud put in. "The elf has hired me, but he has not paid."

Drehn smiled at this (a little, anyway).

"Room, board and diversion don't count as a wage?" he demanded, half seriously.

"Gold and battle, only," the orc insisted. "Or more of your ale-cylinders. Those were good… but until I am paid, I remain."

And Voreig, of course, would stay with his brother. All at once, Allat was the odd creature out. He began to fidget and reabsorb eyestalks.

"I guess it wouldn't be much fun, at that, heading back to civilization alone. You can count me in, Sir G. Just, uh… I'll do my best to be brave, but…"

Gawain clasped the shape-changer's partly furred shoulder.

"Take courage," he said. "I will defend you t' th' last. My word on it."

And he meant it, too. But that was only part of their quandary solved. Gazing out across the barren, flat lichen fields, Gawain asked,

"Right, then. Supposin' we find this last bit of sky metal. What then? Are we expected t' forge a crown on th' spot? Or seek out a dwarf? And what of the gems? How many have we?"

From his belt pouch, the knight drew a cracked and grubby white stone.

"This was given me by a dead king… and there's also th' stone in my sword, with another in Lady Anelle's safe keepin'." (The first he'd received and the loveliest.)

"I can provide two more," Drehn told him, sounding not so much reluctant as torn. "One of them makes sense, as it comes from the ocean."

The slender blond elf reached a hand into one of his tunic sleeves. At first, nothing happened. Then, after he said,

"Show yourself, please. There's no purpose in further secrecy. Not anymore,"

…Something very like a copper serpent slid from his left arm to the elf's waiting, outstretched right hand. The animate ring was a wonder in itself, but it also bore a violet jewel in its mouth, all that remained of a sea-elf's strong magick. His companions seemed puzzled, so Drehn excused himself with,

"I, um… decided to keep a memento."

At his command, the copper serpent disgorged its sea-coloured stone, which Drehn then handed to Gawain. The knight examined the shimmering violet gem, turning it many times over.

"That, with the white, green and opal, makes four. But what of the other? You said that you might provide two?"

The elf nodded in reply, his expression more than usually troubled.

"Yes, I did. Glud put me to mind of the second gem's whereabouts, Gawain, with his talk of conjured ale-cylinders. When we stayed with her, his mother Samara bound a spirit in gem form, and bade me cast it away." Drehn paused questioningly, but everyone nodded, for the incident had been memorable. "I did as she asked, hurling it into the same place that I conjured the ales from. It's far, but I know the way, and with these ley lines to bolster my reach, the gem can surely be found and retrieved."

The question was, though... why would they want it?

"Would an object so dark not curse th' crown's wearer?" Gawain objected, shivering when the sun moved again and the ice wall's long purple shadow engulfed him.

"In a way," Frodle cut in, "if you consider knowledge of evil a curse. There is no light without darkness, Gawain. No true courage without fear. Real life is a thing of contrasts, and the heir must learn this. "

Gawain nodded thoughtfully. Here he stood at the far end of Midworld, with mountains of ice and towering clouds at his back. His friends were not men, but creatures; a halfling, a shifter, a dark elf, and two hulking half-orcs. Since beginning his quest, Gawain's faith had been shaken to bits and his status as paladin stripped away, and yet… oddly enough, he had no more doubts or complaints.

"Retrieve the last gemstone," said Gawain to Drehn. "And if our scholar would be pleased t' make contact with th' Lady Anelle, I shall have back my…"

But the knight never finished his thought, for young Frodle held up a swift, blocking hand. With a look of alarm, he whispered,

"Gawain, something comes for you. The spell of transport is weak and unanchored, but these ley lines may yet give it…" His brown eyes flew wide, as the halfling sensed just what it was that sought Gawain. "Hurry! We must make haste for the tunnel!"

"But…"

"Run!"

Clearly, Frodle was serious, yet the re-made knight was reluctant to flee. He might be no longer a paladin, bearing the Sword and Raven for his device and the mingled elements of Midworld for colours, but a brave and honourable young man he remained.

"Whatever it is, I c'n…"

"Your father!" snapped the halfling, "with the rest of your order and a great many soldiers, besides. Gawain, they mean to destroy you! Will you take arms against your own kin?"

"He doesn't have to," said Drehn, who'd just managed to call back an extremely vile, sea-smelling gem. Something seemed to have occured to the elf, who looked all at once deeply relieved; a cheat, a trick, a way out. "Holding this stone will disguise his true nature, while I…"

The elf muttered a powerful spell of illusion, all at once taking on the semblance and seeming of Gawain. The likeness was startling, impenetrable even to Frodle and Allat, who knew him best. Speaking rapidly, Drehn continued,

"…While I go forth to get him killed. It's my fate, Gawain; it's why I'm here. I'll give your friends the hardest fight they've ever encountered, trust me. They won't realize they've been tricked until after the rest of you have reached the ice cave, and by then you'll be halfway to the sky-metal."

A greenish light flared, perhaps a mile further south on the ley line. Indeed, they were coming. Gawain could feel his own name like a curse in the raging mind of a man who'd once been brother-knight, king and father.

Glud protested vehemently, but there was no time to argue, or properly say good-bye. Two would not leave alive, Frodle had prophesied. Well, here was one of them. Unable to speak, Gawain embraced his disguised friend and accepted the black gemstone. Then, somehow, he succeeded in turning away.


	100. 100: Tricks and Deceptions

Yikes! Getting dangerously close to that all-important 101. Brevity, that's the key. Pithiness and brevity. Thanks, Tikatu, ED, Mitzy and Sam for your recent reviews. Apologize if I've forgotten anyone, but it's 4 AM, and head-banging exhaustion has set in.

**100: Tricks and Deceptions**

_In the hot, poisoned waters off Terra Nova-_

Aboard the WorldGov submarine Thresher, in a red-lit and cloth muffled control room, Seaman First Class Kenny Long listened closely to the torrent of sounds which came through his earphones. Leaning well forward, he matched these noises to the spiked rise and fall of frequency tracks on his passive sonar screen.

There was an awful lot of environmental clatter; roaring vents, cracking and hissing stone, and chaotic swirls of super-hot water. _But… _underneath it all, woven like silvery flute tones through the blatting and sputter of horns… he also detected the sound of human activity.

There were mechanical noises from Hector: raps, scrapes and the groan of stressed metal. Repair attempts, probably. Above that, he now heard a sharp, steel-on-steel SOS; the sound of trapped, wakened people signaling for help. Muffled human voices (a very distinct and distorted noise, below surface) reached him as well, along with occasional comm bursts. Whoever handled their instruments was canny enough to keep shifting frequencies in hopes of getting past Thresher's jamming. Not that it did any good.

Somewhere deep inside, beyond the level of instant obedience and military resolve he _had_ to maintain, Kenny felt sorry for the trapped crew of science journalists. But of course, no one cared what he felt. The State's interests would always come before those of the individual. Seaman Long had believed that when he signed on, and he clung to it now, when four people's lives were about to end. (For a cause, he assured himself. Always for a meaningful cause.)

At any rate, the sounds he was _really_ listening for became steadily louder. A certain trace, detected and recorded on other occasions, indicated that a small, smooth object was headed his way, pushing water out of its path too rapidly for total concealment. This was the trace that he'd pointed out to Captain Henderson, who hovered now behind Long's station, watching the passive sonar with palpable satisfaction.

Unbeknownst to Seaman Long and the rest of the crew, Henderson's goals had diverged from WorldGov's some time ago. Quite simply, he'd been first scouted, flattered and then bought out, and with him the boat's executive officer, Jim Pike. WorldGov intended only that he should drive off interlopers and image the vent system, laying claim to island and gold in the name of President Moreira and the united peoples of Earth. Someone else had other ideas, though, and was willing to pay very well to see their notions made fact.

So, at the will of his new master, Henderson had ordered that Thresher's EMP weapon be unleashed against Hector, felling the helpless submersible to bait a well-hidden trap. He hadn't noticed the weird energy surge that flared through his boat and crew at the same time, because Thresher was shielded while using the EMP, and because weird after-effects were common in the wake of such discharges. Also, he was a man who never doubted himself and rarely changed course; not especially tall or good-looking, perhaps, but memorable and (soon) very rich.

Fascinated, Henderson looked on as passive sonar tracked the swift advance of his quarry, Thunderbird 4. Reputedly the smallest and most vulnerable of all the International Rescue craft, the submarine would quite soon be disabled and fully imaged. Then (once Thresher released an accusing distress call patched together from .wav files of the journalists' voices) she'd be left on the bottom to perish with Hector. A whole slew of problems would thus solve each other, with everyone blaming IR for a badly failed rescue, and Henderson safe away.

Three at a blow; he had to admire the plan's neat output of silenced media-types, discredited vigilantes and stolen technology. Plus his own considerable pay-off, of course. Between that and skippering Thresher, life was good, and about to get better. Of course, there was always a fly in the milk, wasn't there?

"Sir," whispered the COB (Chief of the Boat), "water and temperature conditions are deteriorating rapidly. Engineering says we've got _maybe_ thirty minutes before hull stress reaches…"

"Chief," Henderson cut him off, staring the older man down. "I know precisely what my boat is capable of, and just how much stress she can take. Your input is noted and logged. Now, proceed to the comm station and stand by to engage EMP."

The COB nodded stiffly, and then turned away. Perhaps there was grumbling at the captain's brusque treatment of Chief Wilfred, but if so, Henderson never heard it. Very few things spoke louder than money, anyhow.

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_Nominally at the helm of a Learjet, en route to mid-afternoon in Houston-_

Thankfully, the plane flew itself, because John was busy sorting data and fielding calls from more versions of Scott, Virgil and Brains than he'd dreamed existed. Not just John, though. John, plus all of his own scattered variants and the quantum entity, Five.

Anyhow, there in the plane's blinking and humming cockpit, John Tracy parsed bits like a madman, searching the entire hay-dimension for one particular wisp. Scott(s) called again, letting him know that a tidal wave of possible Gordons now had a very high probability of crossing Terra Nova's worldline… or something like that. Hard to concentrate on an event so quicksilver brief in this maelstrom of altered wave functions. But then a slight shift in focus away from his endangered grandmother(s) and dad(s) brought up another complication: the long, corkscrew worldline of an attack sub, doing its level best to stay low, dark and hidden. Right. Good luck with that, dumbass.

He answered Scott(s)… or thought he did… then looked again at the hovering attack subs and their infinite crippled victims. Naturally, this additional mess branched many times, with most of those twigs ending in very dead Gordons and stolen IR technology. Okay… so his clandestine friends were plotting espionage, murder and world-class jackass-itude. Now what? Obviously, John had to help Gordon, but he could lose all his gains with the rest of the family if he let himself get too distracted.

Probability whip-lashed like a full blasting fire hose with one stubborn idiot hanging tight to the nozzle. And what the random numbers and zero-point energy touched, they altered. He was able to apply a fast and rough griefer trick, though; turning things around with long strings of glittering code.

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_Hovering close to Terra Nova, in Thunderbird 1-_

What happened next was a jaw-dropping shock to Scott Tracy, and _he'd_ been somewhat prepared. Not that John's warning much helped. All of a sudden, according to his eyes and instruments, both, the crashing sea and dark skies around Terra Nova were filled with darting, swooping versions of Thunderbird 4. Many millions of them. They were fully realized in three dimensions, with a slight flicker and glow to them all, as though he were looking at heat phantoms or some kind of brought-to-life wallpaper. Some of them scooted along, half-buried in the island's part-molten rock. Some flashed through the sky and ash clouds, or cut a ghost's path through Thunderbird 1 and the unprepared spy planes. Thinking quickly, Scott stifled his own surprise and hit the virtual comm switch.

"Attention, all aircraft and surface vessels within range of this signal. You are advised to withdraw for your own safety, as there's been some kind of unexplained…"

What? Mass illusion? Reality hack?

"…dangerous visual and sensory anomaly. International Rescue will remain behind to locate and salvage Hector, and then we'll leave. You have our word that we're not after the island or gold. Repeat, please withdraw from the immediate vicinity, for your own safety."

The planes and helijets were already streaking away, barely able to fly a safe course in that hailstorm of Thunderbird 4s. Meanwhile, the surface ships had swung into full reverse, because there was something about having a fleet of ghost ships cascade through your bridge that shook even the steeliest captain. Utterly silent, they were, crackling slightly when passing through wires or screens. Defiant refused to budge, for there were friends in real danger, below. Thresher remained, as well, because moving would have betrayed her presence to Thunderbird 4.

Some distance away, Virgil was puzzled, at first. Then he started to laugh. John obviously had issues (volumes… entire libraries…) but no one could say that he wasn't creative.

Peering through his view screen and readouts at a sea and sky full of hurtling, oddly configured submarines, Virgil wondered how his brother had managed to come up with so many designs, much less project them all. But, wait… fifteen minutes, he'd said? After which time the distraction would terminate?

"What the hell," Virgil decided aloud, "I can get there for pick-up in less than twelve, bet me. Who's gonna notice, in all this?"

Made plenty of sense at the time, and so, calling in to Thunderbird 1, Virgil throttled up and banked east after Gordon.

The aquanaut had by this time arrived at the wreck site, lowering 4's power-hungry shield long enough to search out and locate Hector. Immediately, a set of hull sensor lights began flashing, while high-pitched alarms split the cockpit's stale air. Gordon nodded absently, scanning the dark, reeking water with floodlights and instruments.

"Well aware, luv," he responded, "but it can't be helped."

The best he might do was to hurry. Gordon looked about, and the floodlights' intense, gold-flecked beams tracked his gaze. There were fast-moving shadows all about him, gliding through the ocean like reflections in a hall of smudged mirrors. Startled, Gordon adjusted his instruments, attempting to bring these shades into better focus. Ordinary light was rubbish in water so dreadfully turbid, however, so he switched from visible to infrared (blinding) and then ultraviolet (too dim to be of any real use). Finally, having run through his options, Gordon began to ping his surroundings with tight-focused bundles of sound.

Having just left transit, he was unaware of John's trick, and didn't know that he ought to blend in. Worse, the emission of active sonar quite spoilt his camouflage, singling Gordon's craft out amid the infinite mass of illusory rescue subs.

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_Midworld, far north of Falkirk, in cold and bitter circumstances-_

Gawain thundered across the plain with Frodle, Allat, Glud and Voreig, thinking that if he made haste to retrieve the sky metal, he might return in time to help Drehn. But Glud had not wished to leave in the first place, not even when the elf handed over his last whole dragon scale by way of the promised wage.

"No," the orc snarled, slapping the valuable thing to the ground. Uncharacteristic of him to ignore so much gold, but orcs were a superstitious lot, and he genuinely thought that refusing his pay would somehow secure Drehn's survival. (Likewise, most orcs never kissed, repaid a debt or bade farewell before battle.)

Glud understood that the elf welcomed this fight, for an orc would have done the same. More, he would not begrudge Drehn a chance to be cleansed of his unspoken trouble in the only way that counted; alone and well-armed. Even so, it was with deeply torn heart that Glud followed Gawain to the ice wall's yawning blue mouth.

The dark elf moved oppositely, racing to meet Gawain's newly-come assassins. Their transport spell flailed a bit… he could feel its wild, fumbling search… and then it settled upon the ley line and his own disguised form. Drehn had lifted a silver ring from Gawain while handing over that dragon's scale (after all, the knight wouldn't miss it, and the personal item gave depth to his illusion). It was this ring that drew the oncoming party's spell, for everything else of the real Gawain was concealed beyond detection.

Without need of someone to open a way, the transport magick flared like a splintered rainbow, disgorging four mounted paladins, a number of wagons and sundry men-at-arms. They came forward, flat as pictures, at first; gaining substance and dimension as they stepped through onto rocks and ice and velvet-brown moss.

There were rather a lot of them, and he ought to have been afraid, but Drehn felt nothing much beyond a need to finish things, at the time and manner of his choosing. Grayling was gone, led off by Frodle, and this left the elf at a disadvantage against mounted opponents. Not that he very much cared. Drehn was present to provide distraction and cover. Present as well, to avoid giving in to his own instinct for chaos. To symbolically kill Gawain, while yet defending and aiding him.

Thinking these things, the elf drew his sword, and he waited. The knights advanced in silence, three mounted upon dimming white horses, the fourth on a great, snarling cat. He'd seen some of them before, at a pentagram trap Gawain later converted to a sacred grove. They'd fought on the same side, then, but times had changed and so had hearts.

Wagon wheels creaked, armor clinked, horses snorted and stamped in the suddenly worsened cold, while above and below them magick crackled and spat. Fifty men took position, forming restive lines behind their semi-circle of leaders. Then another came through… some kind of mage, Drehn suspected… followed by a long, pale tendril of mist.

One of the knights urged his horse forward. This one, Drehn did not know. His silver-white helmet was inscribed with a crown, however, and there was something familiar about the manner in which he carried himself, drew rein and then spoke.

"List well," the man called, in a voice heavy with sorrow and rage, "for I'd not have it said that you were given no chance t' redeem yourself!"

The disguised elf nodded, signaling that he was, indeed, listening. A burst of wind rattled small stones and fluttered clothing, spooking the old paladin's horse. The man continued, once he'd succeeded in calming the beast,

"Flight from the order y've come near to shattering is not possible, nor have you sought t' end your own life. Therefore…"

The old king paused, as though bewildered at what he must now say, and do.

"I… Gawain, my son, I shall meet you in honourable combat. Know that I will fight without mercy, not withholding the final stroke, and that I expect no different from you."

Drehn shifted his weight a bit. The man had begun to weep. Drehn could tell this from the way that his voice roughened, and from the glistening tracks that ran from his eyes to the man's slivery beard. Had he known what lay beneath his son's semblance, the king would have struck without hesitation or sorrow, and yet… Drehn could not help feeling saddened, probably for Gawain's sake. Likewise for his friend, he would not let this sorrowful, blinkered old man strike the killing blow.

"No," he replied. "I won't fight you alone. Let all come, or none."

The men-at-arms had already cranked up their crossbows and leveled their long, sharpened pikes. Just one opponent faced them, yet they took him quite seriously, for a paladin was dangerous, even when dismounted, disgraced and cast out.

The king struggled to find a response. He would have spoken once more, but a young mortal man strode up and laid a hand on his horse. They conversed in low, spell-warded tones, coming to some sort of agreement. Then the fellow crossed over to speak with Drehn, his booted feet crunching through snow and scuffing the moss, his breath misting as he hummed up a cloud of ready magick. There was a plain wooden lute slung at his back, its strings as worn and patched as his clothing. A wandering bard, then; diplomat, seer and sometime thief.

"What are you doing?" the young man demanded, once he'd drawn near enough to cast a brief privacy spell. "You aren't Lot's son. You're not even human."

Drehn gazed at the bard's long-jawed, clear-eyed face, and quietly began raising magicks of his own. Aloud, he said,

"You can pierce the illusion?"

"Somewhat… though it's a very strong spell. You're obviously quite talented, and probably able to fight. Why the deception, if I may ask? And how are you able to tolerate sunlight? Even this far north, it ought to have killed you."

Drehn ignored both questions. Nodding toward the old king, he asked,

"Have you told _him?_

The brown-haired bard shook his head, saying,

"Not yet, drow… and may I say that those who disparage the manners of your species do not lie. I have conversed with nobler kobolds."

"And your insults matter about as much as your worthless opinion, spell-singer. Hold your peace, if you please, and let them fight me. Believe it or not, I mean to do the right thing." For once.

The bard had been humming a little, drawing magick from the wind's sigh, Drehn's few words and the slight movement and coughing of massed, waiting men.

"How very odd," Kenneth remarked, shaking his head in wonderment. "It seems that you're telling the truth… or your version, thereof. Well… a bard's purpose is to watch, recall and retell."

He shivered briefly, pulling his cloak tighter.

"Though this particular epic I'd prefer to sing in a warm mead hall before drunken louts and giggling, amply-fleshed wenches."

"Very well," Drehn replied, refusing to smile or to soften. "So long as you remove yourself from my sight, shut up and let them attack. I give oath that I won't kill your lord, if that's your concern."

Kenneth shrugged.

"So be it. If it's quick death and a place in immortal song you covet, dark elf, by all means proceed. I'll be certain to emphasize each facet of your shame and defeat for the masses. A light, comic tone should suit, I believe."

Amidst all the sparring, neither mage noticed a pale, ground-creeping cloud. They didn't notice because, this from Falkirk, the newly-freed ghosts did not choose to be seen. Nor would the phantoms reveal what... and who... they'd carried along.


	101. 101: Epicycles

Edited! Sorry so late and so long. The story was supposed to end with chapter 101. Would have been perfect, but an epilogue is clearly required. Thanks for everything, guys. I've really appreciated your comments and insights, this year.

**101: Epicycles**

He chose to make a sacrifice, and that made all the difference.

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_In the midst of turbulent air, above a newly-raised, crumbling island-_

Scott received intel from John that nearly sent him through the hull of Thunderbird 1. As if it were no great matter, his brother reported that some kind of modified attack sub was in the water with Hector, which was coming to look, now, like bait for a trap.

_How_ John knew this was utterly irrelevant; what absolutely, gut-wrenchingly mattered was how to stop Gordon from blundering into the snare, deep in the ocean where 1, 2 and 3 would be powerless to reach or assist him.

"Okay," said the ex-fighter pilot (a little late, as John had already signed off), "Thanks, little brother. I'll see what I can do."

Fortunately, the Air Force had taught him to stay calm and to _think,_ because panic kills. Staring through the view screen at Terra Nova's dismal, hellish landscape, Scott worked up a really quick plan. First, taking an enormous risk, he launched his Bird through that ghostly swarm of Thunderbird 4s (getting a few through the cabin and cargo hold for his trouble). Then, he banked out over the bubbling-hot ocean, just far enough to trigger and drop a comm buoy.

About the size of a basketball and colored a dullish, don't-notice-me grey, the buoy had an antenna which capable of extending past the water's surface, a tiny computer and wide-band undersea messaging array. Released from its bay on the underside of Thunderbird 1 (fighting like mad to stay level in shrill, biting winds) the buoy dropped about fifteen yards, plunging below in a rush of sulfurous bubbles.

It was programmed to maintain a certain depth and to extend its antenna once that position had been reached; a matter of seconds, usually, though it seemed longer now. When the buoy was in, and a flashing green light had appeared on Scott's projected mission status display, he sent a brief, coded message: _tripwire._ Once… twice… and then he stopped broadcasting, praying that he wasn't too late, and that nobody else got the signal.

Part two was different, being an outright assault with one of the fiercest weapons in Scott's arsenal; a soon-to-be wedded journalist.

"Cindy," he said, once he'd reached Island Base, "Listen, hon, we've got a rogue sub lurking at the danger zone, even with John's weird-ass hacking and scare tactics. I need you to find _who_ and _why the hell,_ and then I want you to publicize the daylights out of them. Got it?"

Scott was wound tenser than a kinked and knotted rubber band, but naturally, Cindy Anne Taylor had to snipe.

_"Sure thing, Hollywood. And, hey, love you, too. I'll just be down here alone, obeying the all-knowing commands of my better half, cooking supper in pearls and a June Cleaver smile."_

But Scott had a particularly weird, serpentine version of Thunderbird 4 passing through his craft at the time, screwing with the readouts and visuals. Also monster thermal updrafts, a crumbling stone beachhead and towering, battery-acid waves. His reply was distracted, to say the least.

"Uh-huh. Sounds good, hon. Love you, mean it, but I've got a situation to manage. Call with updates as soon as you figure out what's going on."

He'd have summoned Virgil, as well, but his other brother was already moving, having a definite sixth sense for where to be, and how quickly.

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"Tripwire," Gordon repeated, going suddenly cold and alarmed. Next to any mention at all of the Western Front, this particular code spelt impending disaster, in the form of a dangerous trap. The Hood, perhaps? Or Red Path?

Acting immediately, the aquanaut cut power and ceased pinging, searchinging his mental pockets for a new plan, or explanation. There were still those sliding-odd shadows in the water (near as large as his boat, most of them). But these _couldn't_ be the source of the danger, as they seemed to have no genuine substance. The known hazards were acidic water and hellish temperatures, which hardly merited a special effort at mid-rescue communication. What could have motivated the warning, then?

Gordon scowled at his instruments, and the poisonous murk outside. Beyond the blue plastic rosary he'd tacked to the overhead, all he could see was a turbid darkness cut by flashes of movement and smothered floodlight beams.

Still and all… he could hardly sit about doing nothing. Not when four innocent people were trapped in a downed research vessel, soon to perish from tomb-like darkness and sour air. Gordon decided to switch tactics; thinking first, before charging in. Ignoring a constant roar from those jetting undersea vents, he held position and examined his last few sonar returns, looking for anything at all that did not match the bottom, or Hector. An odd texture or artificial shape, for example.

There was nothing at first but the soft echoes from bubbling mud and a series of sharper, scattered rock signatures. (Plenty of seamounts about.) Overlaid upon these were tiny, peppered signals from drifting debris, almost obscuring Hector's ovoid and half-buried form. Worse, his most recent data revealed her to be slowly disintegrating, surrounded by clouds of acid-peeled metal.

But the last few frames showed something else; a hovering shadow whose overall size and sleek conformation were merely hinted at. The jaws of the trap which awaited him, presumably; poised barracuda-like at the edge of his sonic 'vision'.

Gordon considered the matter. Not very long, as he'd no time at all and very few options.

"Right, then," he said to himself. "Fortune favours the foolish."

And so, with a half-formed plan in mind, the aquanaut deliberately throttled forward, rushing to Hector as though he were ten times as large and armed to the teeth.

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_In a high-powered titanium can, punching holes through the air at 300 miles per hour-_

His laptop was busy, already pushed several orders of magnitude beyond capacity by extreme, urgent need and a good deal of tinkering. There was only so much that a Vaio could do, however; even one parallel-linked to her sisters in many universes. Even one backed up by Five, and an army of slaved mainframes.

No problem. John had other options, thanks to a sheet of electronic 'paper', one soft lead pencil and the semi-conducting potential of graphene. He could literally _draw_ a very flat trace-work of carbon logic gates and single layered transistors, using hair-thin lines and a good eye for coding.

Six-carbon rings were remarkably quick to produce and make use of, assuming you varied the pencil stroke for source, gate and drains, and provided the voltage you applied was weak as a strayed tabby kitten. Of course, the entire business had to be shielded from static, but the point was that it functioned; allowing John to keep working on the situation back home, while trying to shove another reality the hell away from his own. Having untangled a spider's web of timelines, he was beginning to understand what had happened, if not quite how to fix things.

However it had been called into existence… whether already present or created by a weird mix of RPG and quantum computing… Midworld had grown dangerously close. Its events were affecting _his_ universe, now, and John very much needed to block further developments. If they merged, you see… if the link forged by AS6750 and Alan's coded-up game scenarios were to strengthen… the result would be chaos.

Alan(s) was/were in school, but reachable. John could send his youngest brother(s) a long list of supposedly random numbers which would infect and re-write the game. That was point one.

AS6750 had not entirely vanished from this dimension, nor had its sky-metal version completely emerged into Midworld. Obviously, what the stupid damn rock needed was another good, hard, statistical push, which he considered point two.

Too much to deal with, when somehow, his plane was already on final approach to Houston's Johnson Space Center, responding with John's voice and likeness to incoming tower squawk. It was 1:45, local time; sunny and warm, with hazardous medical personnel massed like storm clouds on the distant horizon. Wonderful.

If the multiverse had had a reset button, John would have pressed it, but maybe he'd done too much of that, lately. Maybe it was time to choose one timeline... one fate... and stick with it. No matter the personal cost.

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_Midworld, south of the cavern-pocked ice wall, athwart an extremely powerful ley line-_

What Drehn wanted most was release; an escape from betrayal and fate. That he was doomed, the elf accepted. That others were going to fall with him, he did not.

In Sir Gawain's semblance he stood before Lot, attempting to start (and lose) a last battle. A mist rolled silently past them, streaming like clouds and clotted in places like three-day-old cream. Drehn ignored it, watching the old king and his quietly humming bard, instead. Then, deciding that he'd waited long enough… that the mortal paladin and his brethren were starting to waver… Drehn spoke aloud.

"Afraid to finish things, 'father'? Or too weak, even with an army at your back?" The disguised dark elf shook his head in mock sorrow, deliberately goading his audience. Then, pitching his voice so that everyone from Lot to the lowliest pike-man could hear him, Drehn added,

"It is past time that this order of fools and old men was ended, if all they can manage is bluster. Strike, then, all of you, and let Chaos sort through the bones."

The king's posture changed once again, becoming that of a man who'd gotten his death wound.

"Very well," he whispered, signaling forward the others, "As there can be no point in honourable combat with one who's abandoned his vows, let the apostate fall as he deserves, like a cornered beast."

Weapons were readied and snorting mounts spurred. There would be no fairly fought battle, this day. Nor did the elf seek such. Not when Gawain required time and distraction, and Drehn needed both to fulfill and shatter a fated betrayal.

Smiling a little, he muttered a handful of spells and then leapt to the top of a waist-high black stone, very far from cornered.

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At the same instant, a patch of dense fog paused between the would-be combatants. That which lay hidden within sensed the imposter, though; grasping his purpose, and mourning it. Gawain was not here, the ghosts told her, but approaching the ice wall, and he would very soon need what she carried.

"Be well," the lass whispered, meaning all of them; Drehn, together with the desperate men whom she'd followed here. With the ghosts' willing help Anelle slowed time a bit, the most she was able to do. Then she took up her centaur child's hand and hurried onward, for only Gawain could stop this.

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Some distance away, the company released their horses in the deep-purple shade of the ice wall, for the steeds could not venture further in safety.

"Watch f'r the others," Gawain bade George, hurriedly unsaddling the nervous animal. "Lead them south again, if… well, should th' need arise."

After all, there was no telling what would happen at this point; but loyal George, skittish Grayling and long-suffering Dapple had certainly proven their worth, and deserved to live on. Gawain slapped the big charger once, sending him safely away from the ice wall's chill shadow. Grayling and Dapple followed at a run, eager to be quit of this cold, barren wasteland.

Perhaps it was their hoof beats which brought the creature, or sheer bad luck and cold malice. Whatever the cause, their horses were scarcely a hundred yards off when something burst from the ground like a thunderbolt, scattering boulders, ice and brown moss. The earth seemed literally to erupt in a fountain of snow and rock, while something shot from the resulting crater like a white-scaled column.

Gawain whipped both arms before his head and stood frozen a moment, blinded by flying debris. Then a shrill, keening screech and predator's stench hit him, like a blade to his nose and ears, both. Frost worm.

There was no time at all for a warding spell, and their most powerful mage was elsewhere, preventing the Knights of the Cross from pursuing their quarry. So, with no other choice than unequal battle, Gawain took up his shield and drew the sword from his scabard.

The monster's tusked, snapping head turned toward him at once, sensing his motion and warmth. Like the pale corpse of a dragon, it dripped poison and radiated cold, rearing high above Frodle, Glud, Voreig, Allat and Gawain. Then it struck, snapping out to more than a third of its length before coiling for another attempt. The worm's cold breath and acidic reek were fearsome, combining with a mighty, gape-jawed lunge. Gawain was smashed to his knees, shield riven in half. A dirt crusted tusk scraped his side, but the tip did not penetrate. It stunned him, though, driving sensation from his shield arm and right side.

Allat converted once more to a flying form. With bold swoops and dives, he did his best to strike at the worm's tiny eyes, coming entirely too close for safety. The blizzard-white monster lunged upward faster than Allat expected, costing the shape-changer part of a leg and one wing when he banked the wrong way in response. Blood showered the snow and rocks, creating tiny puffs of white steam. Frodle rushed forward with his mightiest binding spell, but the creature was naturally resistant to magick, having hatched beneath a powerful ley line.

Glud and Voreig attacked in concert, circling the beast to shout insults and jab its scaled hide with swords and long spears. They rushed in, and then danced aside, while Gawain and Allat lurched from the monster's path. Both knight and thief had great trouble moving, for Allat was maimed, while Gawain's flesh had grown black with frost where the tusk scored his armor. Didn't hurt much, at first, till the numbness and tingling spread inward.

"Gawain," Frodle shouted, tossing him a ruby dowsing stone, "Take this and make haste for the cavern! There will be no end to attacks til you've found what we seek!"

…And his friends were in danger more _with_ than without him. The knight nodded, caught Frodle's pendant and forced himself upright. A dreadful chill had seized him, though; a thin spear of frost that crept steadily nearer his heart. Gawain swayed on his feet, knowing that the time he had left to find a last bit of sky metal was measured in labored breaths and faint heartbeats. He ought to have hurried away, but Frodle, Glud and Voreig were in danger, and the knight could not simply leave them, as he'd been forced to abandon Drehn.

Trying to damage the worm, Gawain cast a Midworld spell. he called forth sunlight and warmth, though not very powerfully. For several long moments the wind changed, bringing with it a scent of fruit trees and seawater. Then it was gone. Not much, perhaps, but sheer molten ruin to the frost worm, which lashed all about itself, shrieking and snapping in pain.

While the orcs and halfling struggled to finish the maddened beast, Gawain seized Allat and stumbled into the ice cave.

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_The ocean, off a crumbling volcanic island-_

Thresher's sonar fix on the Thunderbird craft blinked away like dreams of money and conquest. One moment Thunderbird 4 was loud and clear on the passive sonar screen. The next, she'd vanished utterly, lost amid raging currents, tumbling rock and thundering gas vents.

Captain Henderson cursed under his breath, all but shoving Seaman Long from his post to adjust the screen's setting. Still nothing. Nothing, that is, but constant, eerie ghost-subs coursing through his boat like a fleet of damn phantoms.

Because they were lying silent, the captain couldn't yell, but a swollen vein at Henderson's forehead and tightly clenched jaws made his feelings clear enough.

"Mr. Long," he snarled, once the latest ghost sub had cleared his control room, "Locate that boat in the next thirty seconds, or you'll end this cruise confined to quarters, in irons!"

Already prepared, his XO stood ready at the controls of Thresher's main weapon, the electromagnetic pulse cannon. After all, they did not necessarily have to 'see' Thunderbird 4 to disable her. Not if she came within range.

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_Nearby-_

Gordon's mad dash was risky, but not unreasoned. Throttled all the way up, Thunderbird 4 shot through the acidic morass like an eel or a tiger shark, hugging the bottom for cover.

As he navigated, Gordon kept one eye upon his charts, another on the instrument panel and his right hand at the force shield control. When the moment arrived, and he'd actually glimpsed a bit of Hector's disintegrating rudder and screw… when he'd heard the crew's tapped SOS… Gordon engaged 4's shield, snapping it about the derelict sub and his own like some sort of double cocoon.

Resembled a silvery bubble, it did, one with an appetite for power which threatened to drain his batteries in less than ten minutes. Something washed over him, just as the force field came up; like a pulse or a shockwave, sparking against Thunderbird 4 and those endlessly gliding dark shadows. But Gordon hadn't time to wonder what "Tripwire" had launched at him. Using the shield as a tow-line, he had to surface, at once.

A touch to the left panel fired compressed air into his buoyancy tanks, triggering an emergency blow. Ordinarily, the result would have been a spectacular, broaching ascent. This time, however, he was towing another vessel. This time, he nearly failed to resurface.

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_Tracy Island, the office; with Brains looking on and grandma still impatiently hollering questions-_

"That's right, Jake," Cindy told her occasionally erstwhile boss, "Someone's sneaking around under cover of this emergency, probably meaning to lay claim to the island and gold. It's an attack sub of some kind, according to highly placed sources."

Sensibly, she didn't mention IR or Scott Tracy. Likewise sensible, Jake Hall didn't press her. Squinting over the comm screen at Cindy, he said,

_"Attack sub? Who the hell's got one of those, anymore? The World Security Treaty ended all national arms races way back in…"_

"…2015, bringing peace and prosperity for all mankind. Yeah, yeah, I know. My guess would be WorldGov, Jake. They're the only ones with, um… _official_ access to equipment like that. So... what d'you think, lord and master, boss of the century? Have we got a story, here?"

Jake smiled, doing terrible things with his pouchy, stubbled face and caffeine-stained teeth.

_"Let's see… natural disaster, imperiled lives, hacked satellites, billions in ownerless gold __and__ possible WorldGov corruption…? Yes ma'am, I'd say it's a winner. We'll start running teaser reports on the TV and websites with your byline and thumbnail, and then go live on the hour. Have something ready for broadcast, Taylor, even if you've got to embroider."_

She could have kissed him, but would doubtless have caught something incurable, even through the comm screen.

"Jake, you're a wonderful human being, and you'll live forever. I'm serious, someone's going to pickle your brain and keep it around for eternal advice, like an 8-ball. All I can do is try to follow your shining example."

(A statement which would have meant more, had Cindy not quit again, three days later.)

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_In the poisoned waters around Terra Nova-_

Had Virgil not been there, Gordon would never have reached the waiting Defiant. Thunderbird 4 rose to the turbulent surface like a sodden log, barely afloat, and too low on power to navigate. Had he dropped his shield or released Hector, the aquanaut might have limped off to safety, but he could not let go. Not when he'd come so close to saving the little research sub and her trapped crew.

Power fell, despite all his frantic rerouting and prayers. A double tragedy would surely have followed, but a Tracy was never alone; not on duty and not in life. Thunderbird 2 rumbled low overhead just as the last of 4's power gave out, her own mighty force shield flashing down to seize and defend the two submarines.

_"Need a lift, kiddo?"_ Virgil called good-naturedly.

"If you'd not mind, awfully," Gordon responded, slumping in his seat like a man half-dead from exhaustion and relief. "Batteries're just a bit low at th' moment, as it happens."

_"I'll bet. Hang on tight, champ, and we'll skate you right over to the mother ship, smooth as glass."_

'Skate' was a small, docile word for a very wild ride. Gordon could not speak for the folk aboard Hector, but Thunderbird 4 skipped like a stone across high, acid wave crests, shielded in glittering force. Within seconds, Defiant grew large in his view screen, wavering slightly as though glimpsed through a curtain of smoke. Seemed they were about to collide for an instant, but Virgil Tracy was too good a pilot for that.

While Thunderbird 1 cut spiraling arcs overhead, Virgil brought his younger brother and some very confused scientists rocketing up to Defiant's port side. A medical team was alerted and ready, and the sub's launch harness lowered for action.

As always, Scott did the talking, asking only that Defiant cut off her cameras while the Thunderbird craft were in range.

_"Of course,"_ Captain Murray agreed, _"But I can't promise not to score a lifetime of free drinks, talking about volcanoes, ghost ships and rescues."_

Fortunately, Scott was a persuasive young man, able to win over and silence a veteran sea captain, even. Mission accomplished. But only when Hector's corroded husk was lifted onto the deck, when four gasping scientists clambered forth into ashes and wind, did Gordon agree to be drawn aboard Thunderbird 2. Then, it was time to go home.

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_Houston, Texas, at the Johnson Space Center medical complex-_

John knew what had happened, of course. Furtive glances at highjacked monitor screens and his blinking wrist comm brought the astronaut up to speed. His head hurt, making each step as he walked down the carpeted hallway ring like a blow to the skull, or a really bad hangover.

Halfway to Dr. Bennett's office, he'd run out of memorized curse words, and was forced to create more, using quantum physics and obscure anatomical references. (Pancreatic lesions and spin decoherence figured prominently, but that was probably just the aspirin talking.)

At any rate, John finally reached door number three, fifth floor, east wing, and then paused. A quick final glance at his wrist comm assured the astronaut that Hector's crew would live, and that Gordon was safe aboard Thunderbird 2. Even better, his reporter-in-law had stirred up a hornet's nest of repercussions for WorldGov, questioning their motives in the Terra Novan gold situation. Other than his up-coming physical, life couldn't get any better. Right?

"Morituri te salutant," he murmured, just before knocking at Bennett's flimsy wood door. Then, squaring his shoulders, John turned the handle and walked right in.

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_Midworld-_

Inside the glistening ice cave, all was purple and dank and gusty. Cold, too, though not so much as outside. Gawain stumbled along, hauling Allat like a half-empty sack. The shape-changer had shifted forms to something resembling an ape, but with two damaged limbs, he kept falling off.

The ice wall shifted and moaned all about them, making the cave they traversed, with its pebble-floored streamlet and chill, panting breeze, seem terribly fragile. He'd never known that ice had breath and a voice, or that softly diffused light would make everything glow; each branching passage and icicle. There were slow-moving sprites in the walls and streamlets, worm larvae everywhere.

But he'd terrible need for haste, so Gawain ignored the surroundings as well as he could, following the twitches and jerks of Frodle's dowsing pendant up this slope and that gallery, ever deeper within.

"Sir G, are you all right?" Allat eventually rasped, as Gawain lurched and slipped onward. "Your heart's slowing down and your breath isn't misting so much anymore. Everything okay?"

"I'm well enough, thanks f'r askin'," the knight responded, though in truth he was numb clear through now and chilled to the core.

Allat's prattling voice gave him something to grasp and focus on, for the shape-changer had put his own hurts aside to talk on and on about nothing. After awhile he shifted to giving directions, for Gawain was no longer quite able to see. In this way, they covered perhaps a mile and a half of dripping, slippery terrain.

At last, the ruby pendant jerked violently leftward, indicating a low-ceilinged passage, more like a crack in the ice than a tunnel.

"That way, Sir G," Allat whispered, gesturing with a suddenly lengthened finger. "Turn that way. I think we've found it."

Gawain nodded dully, gathering himself for a last push. He might have followed instructions, even, had someone not called him by name.

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_Houston, Texas-_

Linda Bennett had been told that her 3:00 appointment had flashed a badge and signed in, and was now on the way up. She'd read through his file, consulted various mission logs, and was more than prepared for John Tracy.

…Or so she thought. That he was Pete McCord's protégé, she already knew; rich, young and handsome, with a NASA pedigree that few could match. What she hadn't expected, when John tapped at the door and walked in, was the sudden wild emotion he evoked in her. The flashes of something like memory.

But Linda was a doctor and astronaut candidate. She observed those around her with a critical eye, searching for symptoms and oddities. Despite her strange feelings, she made herself focus, because that was her job.

Right. Job. Flight physical after emergency landing. In person, John was blond and quite slender. Thin, actually…

…And she saw him all at once, standing beside their bed in a t-shirt and bright red _'remove before flight'_ boxer shorts, with the baby asleep on his shoulder.

The vision faded, thank God, but not her emotions. Looking at the impassive young man, who'd stopped by the door, Linda suddenly knew what it felt like to kiss him, to lie spooned with her back to his chest, as though they were still crammed in a crew-quarters sleeping berth. She knew his touch and his warmth, and protective embrace.

She knew that he didn't like coffee, but would drink it to keep her company. That his favorite flavors were orange and lemon, and that he subsisted chiefly on ham-and-cheese hot pockets, pizza and beer. He liked math, astronomy and programming, and when agitated, would start cleaning up the room. _Any_ room.

"John, stop that," she snapped, as the young pilot began rearranging her book shelf, "Alphabetizing Dickens won't get you through this physical, except as a washout."

"Okay."

When he'd set the leather-bound books in their original place and put Mr. Stay-Puft back where he belonged, Linda said,

"Why don't you come have a seat, sunshi… I mean, John. Astronaut Tracy, that is."

He nodded, saying,

"Right. Sorry for the, um… weirdness, doctor. Long flight. Not that it was anything out of the ordinary. Instrument trouble, is all. I do that… fly… a lot."

Needless to say, considering he was a Moon Station shuttle pilot. John pulled himself together, and then came over to sit on the chair before Linda's steel desk. It was all she could do not to get up and embrace him. All she could manage to sit there and frown. They'd had a baby... a little girl...

Stupidly, with nothing to go on but wild surmise, the brown-haired doctor blurted,

"I know you, don't I? From more than just pictures and mission notes, I mean?"

Her question hung between them like a glittering sword, until John said,

"Yeah. I think so. You and I… there was Junior, and something about Mars."

"Pete was there," Linda whispered, her brown eyes grown large and wondering. "_He's_ the one who married us… wasn't he?"

John did something, then. He got to his feet and came around Linda's protective desk-barrier, though she rolled her wheeled office chair well back in protest. Then, stooping down some, he took her cold hands in his own, and drew Linda to a standing position.

"Doctor Bennett," he said, as though attending confession, "I've made some changes. Seemed like the thing to do at the time, but I'm starting to regret it. Whatever happens, though, I, uh… I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose _us."_

The situation didn't make any sense. Linda couldn't explain it, and didn't want to. Anymore than she fought John Tracy off, when he leaned in and kissed her.

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_Midworld, inside a cavern of glittering ice-_

"Gawain!"

It was Anelle, by some miracle; borne on a seething mist of liberated phantoms. Not for long, though. Dropped with a splash in a pool of melt-water, the lass flailed for balance and then hurried after her battered and half-frozen knight.

"Gawain, stop!"

Once more she called out his name, leading the centaur colt, who seemed to have grown just a bit. Gawain found it hard to be certain, with his eyesight near gone.

Keeping tight hold of Allat, he altered course, turning away from the side-passage to start for Anelle's scurrying shadow. But such things never happen as planned. Before he could reach her, a shriveling blackness rose up, with cold and despair at its heart.

21


	102. Epilogue

The end.

**Epilogue**

_Midworld, within sight of the violet-tinged ice wall-_

King Lot, with his fellow paladins and gathered henchmen, prepared to attack the lone figure that waited for them atop a greyish and slanting boulder. Though time had been spell-slowed, they did not sense it, feeling only the wind's keen bite and the chill of that damp, drifting mist. The uttermost north was a cold, barren land; no place at all for horses or men. Yet, here they were, and ready for battle.

Ignoring the bard's nervous humming, Lot signaled to his followers and resumed riding forward. Slowly, though. Reluctantly. One gauntleted hand was clenched at his sword hilt, though he hadn't yet drawn against Gawain, once his son and brother-knight. Perhaps he would have eventually, but the old king never got a chance to find out.

It was at this point… to a hotchpotch accompaniment of hummed music, shrill wind, hoof beats and army clatter… that another host materialised; one composed of phantoms, nature sprites and monstrous elementals.

The king drew rein rather savagely, causing his tired white horse to rumble and snort. Behind him, the others halted as well, milling about in dismay and confusion. For there, arrayed in a broad arc beyond Gawain, appeared rank upon rank of dead soldiers, much like those who'd stood guard over Falkirk. The phantoms, only Lot and his brother paladins could see, but _everyone_ noticed the rest. Dozens of towering figures were scattered amid the ghosts; elementals of flame, water and shifting grey rock. Nor were these all. Appearing high in the air above the mortal army, fanged snow sprites twisted and dove, spreading hail and confusion in equal amounts.

The person whom Lot believed to be his son glanced round behind himself and then gave a startled second look. But this did not absolve him, in the old paladin's eyes, of consorting with earth spirits and the unquiet dead.

"Well," Lot said to him, bitterly. "It seems you've a greater force than mine at your beck and disposal, Gawain."

The apostate appeared lost for words, but that was no matter, for the bard supplied them quickly enough. Interrupting a hummed warding spell, Kenneth of Longstreet took hold of Lot's right stirrup, saying,

"My lord, this is not your son, but a spell-caster using magick and deception to slow your advance. Behold!"

The long-haired bard spoke a short phrase in the language of thieves and travelers, channeling all of his magick into one mighty spell. Not sufficient to entirely strip away the dark elf's disguise, but enough to briefly reveal his true nature.

"Gods above!" Lot snapped, "What fresh mischief is this? Where is my son, creature? What have you done with him?"

For, of course, he recognized the wandering drow who'd taken up Gawain's dropped sword; the one they'd captured and brought to their confrontation with the fallen young paladin. The one Gawain somehow considered a friend.

The disguised mage shrugged and then dropped his spells of illusion, standing revealed to all as an odd, light-altered drow.

"You just don't learn, do you?" Drehn mocked, leaping down from his perch like a cat. "All of your sort. You're too blinkered with cant and code to see past the end of your rigid noses."

He sheathed his sword, and then jerked a thumb at the silent horde of gathered spirits and hulking elementals.

"I didn't whistle this lot up. Too messy and obvious. My guess is, they're here because they owe a debt of blood or honour to Gawain, who was alive and whole, last I saw him... But I'm sure if you hurry along, you'll be able to stab your son from behind while he's busy fighting another."

The king's helmeted head jerked back as though he'd been slapped. His grim fellow paladins reached at once for their various weapons. Kent, Argonne and Ravencall were ready with sword and bow to avenge Lot's slighted honour, but the king prevented them.

"Stay your hands," he said loudly, demanding, "Explain yourself, creature. What debt is owed, and why has Gawain fled away north, if not to escape your foul influence?"

He _ought_ to have left the judgmental old fool and his spell-singer wondering. Very much _wanted_ to, in fact. But every so often, Drehn grudgingly did the right thing. This was one of those times.

"Long story," he said, "But I'll summarize for you, in very short words."

And with that, the elf began to relate all that he knew of the fallen knight's quest. Drehn could be pithy when he wanted to, and sarcastic nearly always. When the attack came, however… when the earth shook and tendrils of rank, oily darkness bulged like entrails from the split, streaming ground… he was forced to stop talking and fight demons alongside four weakened paladins, fifty men-at-arms and an army of massed spirits.

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_In the cold, dank shadow of the ice wall-_

There was increasingly less room to maneuver, for the ground was a torn-up wasteland of shattered boulders and worm-blasted pits. Glud and his brother pressed their advantage of speed and cooperation, though. Hacking at the monster's flanks with blows that would have felled an oak tree, they roared merry, blood-thirsty songs. What else was a monster _for,_ after all, but to fight?

Glud's arm had gone numb from the reverberating shock of driving a blade through the worm's blue-white scales to the icy flesh beneath. His weapon was rimed and brittle with cold, and Glud's hand could not have released it now for love, gold or glory. He stumbled occasionally, avoiding the frost worm's pain-maddened snaps and lunges, attacking whenever he could. The noise was fierce. Voreig's shield arm hung broken and dangling, but the more human-like brother fought on, bellowing a wild song at the top of his considerable lungs.

Frodle, meanwhile, had adapted Gawain's notion. He pulled away most of the warming magicks from his embattled comrades, and then turned the spells of warmth on the frost worm. The monster reacted as though scalded with blazing pitch, whipping and writhing as it sought out the spell caster. Frodle dove behind a large rock to escape the worm's lashing, pierced coils. Crouched low and weaponless, hands above his head to block a clattering shower of stones, he was among the first seized when the ground split wide and darkness rushed forth.

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_In a cavern of ice and living, bitter shadow-_

Night-Woman, Queen of the Lost, Lady Entropy slid, swirled and poured herself; dark as ink, frigid and sapping as terror.

_'I am eternal,'_ she hissed at Gawain. _'Unlike these…'_

A flick of her thought brushed Anelle's cadre of ghosts, dissolving them utterly.

_'…I cannot be dissipated.'_

Her attention shifted fluidly, next puddling like nightfall on poor, wounded Allat.

_'Unlike __this__,'_ she whispered from everywhere at once, _'I am immune to place, and the passage of time.'_

Then, though the shape-changer clung for protection to Gawain, he crumbled at her will to a handful of blown, wailing dust. Gawain cried out a warning and lurched forward, for Anelle was darting across pebbles and melt-water with the centaur colt at her side, franticly trying to reach him.

_'And unlike the hidden one…'_ the devourer now bent its implacable gaze upon the hurrying lass and her horse-child. _'…I cannot be destroyed.'_

Gawain was desperate; at the absolute last, fraying strand of hope. Impulsively, he turned to the very deity who'd abandoned him earlier, and who surely would never again hear or respond. While darting, fanged sprites emerged from the walls and streamlet, while giant elementals took substance from the rock and ice around him, Gawain sought another kind of help. The former paladin whispered, to that which had vanished away,

"Forgive me, please. I did wrong. I'm willing t' pay f'r it with my life, if that's what's wanted, but grant me strength enough, first, t' save those who've followed an' trusted me."

Something within him had been slammed tight by his single, defiant "no". Now, the link burst wide open again, searing Gawain clean and emotionless.

…And very, very powerful. A pure white radiance shone from the paladin, kindling rainbows from the surrounding walls and sharp daggers of ice. Burnt… fairly cindered… the darkness shrank backward, curling away from the intolerable brightness.

Meanwhile, not at all far away, a bit of ice-bound metal began to hum like a struck tuning fork, or a hive full of bees. Sensing its presence, Gawain reached forth and took Anelle's hand, driving darkness farther away from the wide-eyed lass and her frightened young centaur. Then, keeping hold of them both, he drew them through the opening that Allat had pointed out, leading Anelle to the ice-prisoned fragment of sky metal.

About as long as Gawain's forearm, it was, and very blue. It crackled with power as the knight and his charges approached, sending lines of force in all directions. Anelle gasped aloud, for the emerald once given her by Gawain had leapt from her knapsack to hover in midair. Other stones rose up, as well: from his sword, the opal of Midworld. From the ocean, by way of a sea elf, a pale-violet jewel of depth and longing. Then a cursed stone, dark with pent evil, and the cracked white gem from a dead king's helmet.

Drawn by the sky metal's power, all five flew through the air and snapped against it with resounding loud clicks, forming a perfect circle. The sky metal hummed louder now; a note picked up and returned by the entire, shuddering ice wall. It was a wondrous thing to behold, but Gawain could not look away from Anelle. The dark-haired young girl was confused and frightened. She clung tight to her champion with one hand, and with the other drew close her gangly horse-child.

Lines of blue force touched all three of them; strengthening Gawain and causing the centaur to grow suddenly taller, but only alarming the lass. Gawain was mostly a vessel and instrument, at that point, but still human enough to pity her fear and try to relieve it. The force lines had begun to carve an opening from the rattling ice wall. Interleaving his fingers with hers, Gawain helped Anelle to reach forth and place her hand upon the jewel-crowned stone in the very centre of that portal.

And then, with a soft, bright burst, power came to her. Anelle changed, seeming to grow beyond the confines of her mortal body. If she'd been lovely before, she was devastating, now; mighty enough to banish dark entropy to the ends of time with a single word. That humming noise rose louder around them, and the narrow passage rumbled wider.

With a second word, she undid all of the demon's evil; sending a legion of spirits to peace and reward, calling Allat back from the dead, and bringing in all those who'd fought entropy's horde, outside. In a startled mass they appeared; Frodle, Drehn, Voreig and Glud… even the horses, the Cross-knights, their army and bard, clutching weapons and newly healed wounds, most of them.

Their confusion was cut short by the sight of Anelle, who glowed before them, soft and pale as a star. The massed folk knelt at once with much thumping clatter, for it was clear to all that they'd been brought into the presence of the heir. As the crowd looked on, a portal flared open behind her, forming the sort of energy gate which had once crowned the sky road. Obviously, she was meant to pass through, yet the altered, beautiful being lingered, afraid.

Anelle prevented Gawain from making a subject's obeisance, staying him with both of her hands. In a voice grown clearer and richer, she whispered,

"Don't, please. I can bear with anyone's worship but yours, Gawain. Could… can we not leave this place? Return home to Falkirk? Surely my father… Lord Morcar, that is… would grant his assent to our wedding."

She wanted the portal to shut and this business to end, but Gawain knew better. Very gently and sadly, he said,

"Milady, I could no more wed you than marry a star of heaven. You don't belong here, with me. Y'r home is out _there."_

Anelle bit her lip, which flushed a brighter than natural red.

"Come with me, then, please, for I do not know the way, or what lies beyond. There are bits, but... Most of my memory is darkness, until a storm brought me to Falkirk. Gawain, I do not know how to be other than human. For the last sixteen years, I've animated this body, which was born without breath. Out _there,_" She indicated the energy gate with a timid nod, "I shall certainly have need of my champion and friend."

No, she did not belong here, with him… but perhaps he was meant to be there, with her. Something inside him seemed to agree, through the reforged link to his deity. Gawain would have kissed her slim hand, but she tugged him closer and kissed his rough, stubbled cheek, instead.

"Come with me?" she asked again, squeezing his hand, and the centaur's. Both agreed, though the passage was not immediate. While Chester remained with Anelle, Gawain crossed the ice cavern to take leave of his father, his order and friends.

Lot met him halfway, embracing the cleansed young man with tears and blessings. Kent, Argonne and Ravencall did so, as well; the two greying mortals less stiffly than the tall elven prince.

"My son is returned to us," said the king. "We are healed." …And once more a circle of five. Not since he'd first been called to the order had their joy been as great. Nor did a physical separation threaten to shatter them. Not when his power and spirit were once again linked to theirs.

"With y'r leave, Sire, I propose to accompany…" (What was he to call her, now, Gawain wondered?) "…Lady Anelle." (After all, that's who she'd always been, and that's who he loved.)

"Y've leave and blessing together, lad. We'll look f'r your return, and welcome the tale of your doings."

His father embraced him, then; too pleased and proud for further speech. The knight next bade farewell to big, hulking Glud (and paid him, finally). To Voreig (no longer so eager to face Gawain in battle) and Frodle (truly delighted, and twitching with greed to write all this down). Then St. George ambled over to Gawain's side, hooves clattering on stone and ice. The horse snuffed with wide nostrils at the paladin's red hair and shining accouterments, rumbling contentedly. Then he wandered off once more to greet Anelle.

The knight's final leave-taking was with Drehn.

"That which bound you has ended," Gawain said to the elf, who was uneasy, yet, in the presence of so much brightness and order. "You're quite free now."

"I know," Drehn responded. "And my immediate plans involve civilization, wine and females, in whatever order they're encountered. Glud, too, if he wants to come along."

Gawain smiled, impulsively hugging the startled drow.

"Try not t' stir up more trouble f'r yourself than Glud, Frodle and Allat c'n well get you out of, then. I may be gone a bit longer than expected."

Drehn freed himself, but Allat cut in before he could respond.

"He'll have to get rescued without me, either, Sir G," the shape-changer announced, from his coiled perch atop St. George's back. "Because I'm going with _you_. With your talent for irritating the powers above, below and probably out there, you could use a reliable thief and shape-changer. Trust me."

"I should have thought you'd had enough of fighting and running about," the paladin objected. But…

"He's supposed to go with you, Gawain," Frodle interjected. "Two of us are meant to pass on, returning later, if at all."

The young knight nodded thoughtfully, rubbing his chin and coppery moustache.

"'Tis likely t' end in a fight, then?" he asked.

"Possibly. It's terribly hard to see past the gate, Gawain. But if you summon us magickally, or send word through Allat, we'll hasten to join you, for whatever reason, or none at all."

Gawain was a wise enough young man to accept Frodle's offer, for who could say what awaited them in the lands beyond this one? Once he'd made his farewells, the knight returned to Anelle. Gently, he lifted her onto St. George's broad white back, placing her squarely before Allat. Chester scampered and reared a bit, trying to make himself as tall as the warhorse, until his adopted mum fondly shushed him. Then Gawain took hold of St. George's silver bridle, and led their way through the flickering portal.

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"And that, folks… Is _that_! Game over!" Alan crowed immodestly. His audience was mostly present electronically (other than Fermat and dad, at Wharton for a holiday visit) but the exuberant boy rose and bowed, anyhow; gathering more eye-rolls and snickers than applause. (Not that he wasn't used to it.)

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In the end, John found it simpler to alter one small, early happening; re-normalizing the past while taking himself pretty much out of the family. As a deeply withdrawn, institutionalized autistic, he could still be visited by Scott and the rest, yet was safe enough from harm to please even Five. And there was always hope of release. Wasn't there?


End file.
